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Copyright^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



The What -Shall- 1 -Do Girl 




" WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MYSELF ? " 

( See page 2 ) 






THE 

WHAT-SHALL-I-DO 
GIRL 


BY 

ISABEL WOODMAN WAITT 


Illustrated by 
JESSIE GILLESPIE 


e 


BOSTON -68- L. C. PAGE & 
COMPANY -89- MDCCCCXIII 






Copyright, igij 
By L. C. Page & Company 

(incorporated) 
All rights reserved 



First Impression, February, 1913 



THE COLONIAL PRESS 
C. H. SI&fONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A, 






CI.A343207 



TO 
MY VALUED FRIEND 

Nafyaniri <fl. Jfatnkr, Jr. 



A WORD 

America is full of young girls, fresh 
from the public schools, who are neither 
rich enough nor poor enough to know 
where to turn for helpful guidance toward 
the goal of their best efforts. Inexperi- 
enced, timid, lacking the initiative neces- 
sary to cope with the work-a-day world, 
they stand hesitating on the threshold of 
their own inefficiency. 

May such a one receive some wee helpful 
suggestion from " The What-Shall-I-Do 
Girl/' and say to her inmost self: 

" I see my way as birds their trackless way. 
I shall arrive, — what time, what circuit first, 
I ask not; but unless God send His hail 
Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, 
In some time, His good time, I shall arrive: 
He guides me and the bird. In His good time." 

Browning. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

A Word vii 

I. Joy Discovers Something on Her 

Mind i 

II. Anne Has Letters in Her Blood . 10 

III. Georgie Says Any Little Home 

Beats the Road All Holler . 33 

IV. Constance Lives Where Every- 

thing Goes by Gongs ... 50 
V. Louise's Bonnets Are Sonnets . 80 
VI. Estelle Came Near Dying in Her 

Flimsy Ballet Skirt ... 98 
VII. Dolly Handles the Locks of De- 
parted Chinamen . . . .117 
VIII. Winifred Can't Remember When 
She First Drove the Neighbors 
Crazy with " Chopsticks " . . 135 
IX. Jane Has Deadoodles of Patients . 161 
X. Peggy Is Just a Tired Machine . 177 
XI. Sally Receives a Signal of Dis- 
tress 197 

XII. Betty Dreads the Biddy Look . 209 
XIII. Theresa Declares She's a Walking 

Poole's Index 230 



x Contents 

PAGE 

XIV. Elinor Trips the Light Fantastic 

Toe 243 

XV. Marjorie Becomes a Bona Fide 

Farmer 260 

XVI. Felice Was Borrowed to Tend the 

Billingses' Baby .... 282 
XVII. Simply Salesperson 1195 . . . 306 

XVIII. A Night Letter 329 

XIX. Joy Finds Her Place in the Won- 
derful World 330 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 




te & 



JOY DISCOVERS SOMETHING ON HER MIND 

25 Linden Road, Maywood, Mass. 
New Year's Day. 
You Dear Girl: 

Don't let the shock of hearing from me 

alarm you. It's a New Year's resolution, 

or a part of one. 



2 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Every year since I can remember father 
and I have drawn our chairs close to the 
open fire in the library and made our reso- 
lutions for the new year as we watched the 
old fade into the past. 

Last night the fire was unusually fas- 
cinating. Outside the wintry wind shrilled 
dismally through the lindens. Inside the 
flames danced merrily. Father's great 
arm-chair was in its usual place, but I kept 
the tryst alone. 

He will never watch with me again. I 
realized it fully for the first time, sitting 
there thinking, thinking, thinking, all 
alone. 

There was a troublesome problem on 
my mind, and this was the first opportu- 
nity I had had really and seriously to con- 
sider it. It was myself. What should I 
do with mvself? What could I do with 
myself? There was no one in the world 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 3 

to take care of me now but myself. How 
could I best make me take charge of my- 
self? In other words, how could I find 
myself? 

I must try to be happy. Father would 
wish that. I must be useful, and I must 
be self-supporting right away. Even my 
childhood home would have to go to the 
creditors and there would be nothing left. 
Dear father had always been so lavish. 
Like many others, we had lived up to the 
last cent of his income, without consider- 
ing that that income might sometime sud- 
denly stop. It's dreadful what a pro- 
tracted illness will do to one's savings, 
especially when one hasn't been very regu- 
lar about them. 

I must go to work at once. But how? 
What position was I able to fill? I wasn't 
trained in a single way to earn my daily 
bread. It came home to me like a blow, 



4 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

this realization that commercially I was 
absolutely good for nothing ! 

I would become efficient, in time, of 
course. I was young and as strong as the 
average American girl. My schooling 
was from the public schools and my bring- 
ing-up had been refined and wholesome. 
Still, I was totally unfitted for any sort of 
usefulness, and, further, if I had been 
called upon to choose my life-work last 
night, I wouldn't have had the slightest 
idea of what I should have liked to do! 
I had never thought it all out before, for 
there was always father. 

For hours I surveyed myself suspended 
in the future and wondered what would 
become of me. If I only had some one to 
go to for advice, some one who really 
could tell me what to do and how to do 
it. 

There were distant relatives, but I 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 5 

couldn't be an incubus. Nor a sponge, 
either, on my friends. 

What did other girls do? Ah, I had 
struck the key note! What did you, and 
the rest of my class who are out in the 
world making their own way, do when 
you started? 

Then the thought rushed in upon me 
all at once. I would organize you girls 
into a sort of vocational bureau for my 
own benefit. I would write to each of you, 
you who know me best, you who have 
bravely fought for your places in the busi- 
ness world. You could tell me, if any one 
could. That was my resolution, and this 
is what I am asking each of you : 

Why did you select your especial line 
of work? Do you like it? Would you 
choose it over again, if you were begin- 
ning anew? How did you start out? 
Where were you trained? Did it cost 



6 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

much? How long before you really began 
to earn money? (I must begin right now, 
some way or other.) What are some of 
your happinesses and sorrows in connec- 
tion with the daily toil? Do you know of 
anything I could do? And please answer 
all sorts of other similar questions which 
may pop into your heads. You are suc- 
cessful. You have made-good. Show me 
how you did it. I will grasp thankfully at 
any advice. 

If millions of other women can find em- 
ployment in the United States, why can't 
I? I can and I will, with the help of you 
dear girls. 

Of course, I know I haven't any real 
talent for music, but I love it better than 
anything else in the world. I can reach 
the A-flat in " Bonnie Sweet Bessie " with- 
out any trouble at all. Do you suppose I 
could get a living by singing in a city 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 7 

choir, or by taking a second part, to begin 
with, in some opera company? I know 
the scores of " Faust " and " The Bohe- 
mian Girl," already. Please tell me 
frankly. You've all heard me sing at 
church. 

I long to get to work. It will help me 
forget about father. Don't mention him, 
when you write. I couldn't bear it. I'll 
know what you want to say, and it'll be 
easier for us both. 

It must be a glorious feeling to know 
that you're supporting yourself and have 
your own little place in the busy life 
around you. Just think of being wholly 
independent! I shall love it. Already, I 
have spent my first pay envelope fifty 
times! 

You can't understand what it means to 
me to be going away — way out into the 
wonderful, beautiful world. Where? I 



8 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

don't know, and that's the most exciting 
part of it. I have never known any other 
world than here with father. It seems 
so vast, and I feel so little and lone and 
almost afraid. Tell me about it, you who 
have been there. 

This is your penance for being my 
friend. 

Some day I shall owe my success — for 
I'm going to be a success, you know — to 
you and the others who have given me 
courage to tread the trackless way of the 
untrained. Perhaps, then, I can in some 
measure repay the kindness. 

Until that happy time, accept the sin- 
cere gratitude of a " wee, sleekit, cow'rin', 
tim'rous beastie " on her way to the won- 
derful world. 

Joy Kent. 

P. S. I wasn't alone the very first part 
of last evening. Tad Sears, who, you re- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 9 

member, was in our class at Maywood 
high school and graduated from Harvard 
last year, is home over the holidays and 
ran in for a few minutes. You can guess 
what he said; but, of course, I wouldn't! 
He just pitied me — said I ought not to 
live alone. Just as if he had appointed 
himself a committee of one to look after 
the homeless! I'll show him! I won't be 
a charity wife. How pity hurts! The 
world is my home. Help me to find it. 

Joy. 




fe 



& 



ANNE HAS LETTERS IN HER BLOOD 

Times Office, 
Three-quarters to Midnight. 
Joy Dear: 

Just back from a stupid concert that 

was only worth a stick and a half, and 

there are still two hours before the last 

car home. 



Could you peek into my parlor — this 
10 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 11 

great " city room " — I wonder if you'd 
think bedlam had broken loose. It used 
to confuse me at first — the click of the 
telegraphs, the whirr of numberless type- 
writers, the incessant ring of telephones 
from most unexpected corners, the re- 
porters rushing in and out with their 
stories, the night editor shouting orders, 
and every one doing things all around me 
at once. But now that I'm accustomed 
to it, I not only don't mind it, but find I 
can't write half so well anywhere else. 
The atmosphere of a newspaper office is 
like tonic, while just to see the tired boys 
getting up their copy is an inspiration. 
I once heard a very wealthy man, who 
began his career as a country printer, 
(though, I bet, he didn't get rich that 
way), say: " Every time a whiff of 
printer's ink reaches my nostrils it makes 
me crazy to get back into my little coun- 



12 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

try pressroom." It's the same with the 
roar of the night force — it captivates. 

What I felt when I read your letter 
while trolleying to my assignment this 
afternoon simply beggars description, as 
a " cub " might say. (He wouldn't say it 
but once, however, or he'd lose his 
job!) 

Go to it, Joy dear, and may all success 
be yours. 

" Out in the world " you say you long 
to go — writing as though it were some 
place apart. You are out in the world al- 
ready, childie, as much as you will ever 
be, and probably more. The world isn't 
any one particular place more than an- 
other — it's just where you happen to be, 
that is, your world. 

My world is this newspaper. My father 
is the man who gives me my assignments 
— we call him the city editor. The boys 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 13 

are my brothers. Fm wedded to my 
typewriter, and my stories are my chil- 
dren. 

You must find your world — the world 
you will love — and get into it just as fast 
as you can. 

I will show you a glimpse of mine, 
which may and may not tempt you. 

There is a period in the life of almost 
every girl when she thinks she would like 
to write, just the same as the stage craze 
strikes her as soon as she has taken part 
in some amateur theatricals in the town 
hall. Luckily for themselves and others, 
most girls outgrow this vanity, some by 
waiting for their inspiring genius to turn 
up and inspire, others by the cruel realiza- 
tion that their literary attempts at high- 
brow fiction are not appreciated by the 
manuscript readers. Soon they tire, be- 
come discouraged, and fall into their natu- 



14 The Wkat-ShaU-I-Do Girl 

ral channels of life, which is a blessing to 
all. 

But if you've letters in your blood, ah, 
then there is no averting it! You have to 
fight, get knocked down, pick yourself out 
of the mire, drive your fingernails into 
your flesh, grit your teeth and go at it 
again. Fighting for recognition you are. 
And there's no failure strong enough to 
keep you eternally out of the game. 

A managing editor, who has exploited 
the " newspaper bugs " of too-many-to- 
be-counted women novices, told me that 
only one in two hundred stuck to the busi- 
ness, and he was conservative at that. Not 
so very promising, is it? 

For me a newspaper always held allure- 
ments. Nor can I remember when I did 
not peruse it daily from one end to the 
other. I used to wonder how on earth it 
got hold of all the news, and questioned 



The What-Skall-I-Do Girl 15 

every one I knew who came in contact 
with the work. It was so gratifying to 
find out that a woman's wit had some 
place in a newspaper besides the " advice 
to the lovelorn," " two trebles in space, 
four over group, chain five, skip three," 
and fashion stuff. 

Eager for information, I sought advice 
from a real, live newspaper woman with a 
remarkably successful record. She lis- 
tened a moment to my childish ambitions, 
and then, with tears in her eyes, begged 
me not to enter journalism. " Go back to 
your school," cried she. (I was teaching 
at the time.) "You never could endure 
the rebuffs, the heartaches when you i fall 
down/ the terrible hours in all kinds of 
weather — think of tramping in the dark 
in questionable parts of a strange city, 
perhaps with wet feet and soggy clothes, 
after something you couldn't possibly get, 



16 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

and then marching in with your failure 
either to get called down or fired! Then 
the life — the temptations — how do you 
know you would be infallible? It coarsens 
a woman, and so many resort to cigarettes 
and drinking — yes, I am going to give it 
to you straight — to keep their poor 
racked nerves from being completely shat- 
tered. Oh, it fairly makes me sick to think 
of some of the things I've seen," and she 
closed her eyes as if to shut out the hor- 
rible recollections. 

But she didn't phase me. 

Later, when I was looking for a job, two 
different city editors looked me over and 
said kindly: " It's no place for a nice little 
girl like you." 

My soul blazed with indignation. Other 
women were succeeding and were re- 
spected, too. Couldn't I do what they did, 
given the same determination and persist- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 17 

ency? The very attempt of everybody to 
hold me back spurred me on. Besides, I 
had to do it — it was in my blood. 

Never will I discourage a would-be 
journalist the way others discouraged 
me. 

If you are in earnest, and have a strong 
body, a strong mind, and strong morals, 
there is no reason why you shouldn't meet 
and conquer the various vicissitudes and 
temptations that arise. And they are 
various! Also, you must be resourceful 
and possess all kinds of tact. 

Everything you write is called a 
" story." And to write a story requires 
the ability to get the gist of the news in 
a nutshell, and then tell it anti-climax, that 
is, beginning with the most important fact 
and ending with the least. This enables 
the reader to see at a glance what it's all 
about, and also makes it easy for the copy 



18 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

desk to cut it down, if it's too long or space 
is scarce, by merely chopping off the bot- 
tom paragraphs without injuring the main 
story. 

Then you must be able to see truth, 
and stick to the truth. Simple, concise, 
correct English is all that is necessary. If 
you have " style " you may or may not be 
lucky. And it might be wiser not to men- 
tion the fact when looking for a job. 

A reporter is not supposed to be a rheto- 
rician. Plain little sentences, presenting 
straight facts in a connected way, are 
what is wanted. Be as breezy and vivid 
as truth will permit, and when using local 
color, go shy on the yellow. Above all, 
be alive. Turn your brain into a sort of 
blank graphophone record, but retain the 
power of discrimination between what is 
and what is not news. And, say, if you 
want a thousand different answers to the 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 19 

same question, ask a thousand different 
newspaper men what news is. 

Besides all these, you need courage and 
some one to pat you on the back. A little 
praise often goes further than a raise — 
and some papers use this method of ad- 
vancing their staffs! 

Talk about " out in the world " — you 
will see the whole of it if you enter this 
business. In spite of the meagre pay, ter- 
rific hours, confining duty which never 
lets you make an appointment you can 
promise to keep, and the wear and tear on 
your mental and physical sympathies, if 
you do come into it you'll be happier than 
in any other kind of work — provided, of 
course, you come in for the same reason 
that I did. 

Oh, the happiness and satisfaction of 
seeing your stories in print! And the day 
you begin to sign them your feet will not 



20 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

tread on earth. Then, too, by true insight 
into human affairs you can often become a 
factor for good in the life of some poor 
soul facing public scandal. That is an- 
other difficult part to learn: how to be 
loyal to your paper and get the news, and, 
at the same time, loyal to your fellow man 
and better self. 

Joy, if your city editor said to you : " A 
man has just jumped from a ten-story 
building around the corner. Go get a look 
at him," would you go? Or if there were 
a great conflagration that took half of the 
staff to cover, and you were told to stand 
in the police station and get a picture story 
of those nearly demented creatures who 
came tearing in to seek their lost children, 
scattered by the fire, many unable to speak 
the language and screaming and gesticu- 
lating in such anguish that they turned the 
place into a veritable madhouse every time 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 21 

a new victim was brought in maimed and 
burned and dying — could you stay at 
your post among those broken families 
who had lost their all and keep your 
nerve? Could you question an ignorant 
young mother who was under suspicion 
for the death of her fatherless baby? Or 
could you watch the suffocating misery of 
the congested districts of a great city, 
when the mercury almost volatilizes in the 
thermometer and little children lie gasp- 
ing on the sun-baked pavements for the 
air denied them in their stifling, foul tene- 
ments? They die, these babies, sometimes 
fifty in a single day ! 

And then, after being a part of such 
frightful conditions, could you go back to 
your typewriter and live them all over 
again in a must-be-ready-on-time, read- 
able story? 

Oh, you inexperienced girl who would 



22 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

play the game, remember it isn't all inter- 
viewing statesmen, authors, actors, prom- 
inent men and women who arrive in your 
city; nor yet entertainments, concerts, 
art exhibits, lectures, or theatres — those 
are the humdrums. The human interest 
stuff lies in the shadow of the court, the 
jail, among the poor. 

Of course, the society editor escapes all 
this. She has a perpetual round of twad- 
dle — receptions, teas, weddings, and such 
endless, perfunctory monotony. But if 
you like social functions, here's a chance 
to witness a good many whose doors 
would otherwise be closed to you. When 
in Rome, you naturally have to dress as 
Romans do, or as nearly as your salary 
will allow you — but you must have 
clothes or you'll feel fearfully out of place. 
The patronizing glances of the dames of 
wealth aren't easy to bear. However, as 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 23 

soon as they know that you represent such 
and such a paper, they'll fawn all over you. 
Do society? Never! I'd rather go back 
to teaching. 

It isn't easy to get a job — that is, for 
a woman. There are all sorts of schools 
of journalism taught by mail advertised, 
but I would advise you to avoid them. 
The best school is to get a job and learn 
by hard knocks. Every time you get up 
after being knocked down, you've learned 
more than a whole course in any corre- 
spondence school. The colleges are get- 
ting journalism into their curriculums, 
which is splendid for those in college but 
doesn't help you any. 

I can offer only two suggestions: One 
is to get out of your library the best book 
on writing for the press — the librarian 
will probably know which one is called for 
oftenest — and read it carefully so that 



24 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

you'll get it into your head what such 
words as "story," "lead," "stick," 
"cover," and "box," mean; and, also, so 
you'll have some idea of the skeleton of 
the office force — the relative positions of 
the editor-in-chief, the managing editor, 
city editor, night editor, etc. Otherwise, 
you might make some bad blunders. For 
instance, in time of trouble you should al- 
ways appeal to the man directly above 
you. He is your " boss." Don't commit 
the unpardonable offence of going over 
his head. 

The second is about getting taken on. 
If you happen to apply when the city edi- 
tor (and he is usually the one to see) is 
short-handed, you may be lucky enough 
to be given a tryout at once. Newspaper 
people are forever changing their jobs. 
Either they fall down and get fired, or 
they resign for the better or for no reason 



The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 25 

at all except, maybe, pique. Anyway, there 
are frequent vacancies for which a stand- 
ing army of down-and-outs is ready to 
rush at any moment. 

Go to every city editor in a large city 
and leave your name and address, and the 
chances are that you will never be called 
though you put up a good pretence of 
having a nose for news and wait a thou- 
sand years. Addresses get lost in the city 
room — just like the clipping shears. 

The best way to approach is with a little 
manuscript tucked under your arm. Hold 
it out tentatively as a possible story. He 
will glance at it and either bow you out 
politely, promising to look it over later, or, 
mirabile dictu, grab it and tell you how to 
rewrite it, newspaper style, which you 
must do unquestioningly, no matter how 
much better you think the original is. 

You are not, as a rule, in a position to 



26 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

get real live news first-hand. There re- 
mains the Sunday story — a feature, such 
as you read in the magazine sections of 
the big Sunday papers. See how some of 
these are written, and then if you know of 
any noted person, an author, lecturer, or 
missionary just home from abroad, whose 
tale has not appeared in the recent papers, 
lay for such and find out all the interesting 
things you can about his new book or trip 
or the heathen. Don't let it get stale; 
write it immediately, and trot after your 
job. (We don't say " position " in the 
newspaper game.) 

You may make a hit. At any rate, if 
it's readable stuff you may get a chance 
to write on " space " and be in line for a 
place on the staff. Some writers prefer 
to " space " and make more money that 
way than on a regular stipend. Others 
don't earn their salt. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 27 

Once on, it's all up to you. You'll need 
to use your wits and keep both feet on the 
ground. When you come back to report 
a story to your city editor, try to tell him 
just who and what and when and where 
and why. Be brief. Be simple. Don't 
rigmarole. He has to listen to hundreds 
in a day. Be merciful and short. Or he 
won't stand it long. 

I well remember my first assignment. 
It was to interview the greatest detective 
in America. (Afterwards I found out that 
the only reason they sent me was because 
I was the only available member of the 
staff, or they would never have sent a 
greenhorn.) Well, that detective had 
been stampeded by reporters from other 
papers all day. He was guarded by a 
retinue of questioning clerks whom I had 
to pass. Finally, without suspecting my 
business, they let me in. Scared almost to 



28 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

death, I faced the big man who demanded 
in a polite, though brusque, hurry-up-I'm- 
busy tone what I wanted. Then my im- 
pertinence struck the vulnerable point in 
his pride as I ventured: "I should think 
you could tell, just to look at me, with 
your marvellous powers, Mr. Detective/' 
He laughed and talked for an hour, and 
by a mere lucky thought I asked him a 
certain question. Back to the office I ran 
and recited my little speech breathlessly, 
as if the world depended upon it. " You'll 
do," cried my big chief, jumping out of 
his chair. " By George, she's got a 
scoop ! " I didn't know what a " scoop " 
was, but decided it was the proper thing 
to get. Never will I forget that happy 
minute. 

But scoops are scarce. Contrast that 
stumbled-upon good fortune with this, 
which is by far the more common. I was 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 29 

told to get a story about a Mary Robinson, 
living somewhere in the city, street ad- 
dress unknown. I had long since learned 
not to bother my superior with " How 
shall I find her? " The directory gave six 
Mary Robinsons. The telephone book, 
one. Naturally I called the last first to 
save hunting up the others unnecessarily. 
Wrong, of course. The other five were 
scattered miles apart all over the city. I 
had disproven four and it was getting late, 
so I rang up the office. (A reporter al- 
ways has to keep in touch with his office, 
lest something more important than the 
assignment he has turn up and he be 
needed.) " Nothin' doin\ Look 'em all 
up — it's a good story," were the terse in- 
structions from the office. The heat of 
that day was intense, and even after dark 
it was insufferable. I had eaten nothing 
but bread and milk for a week on account 



30 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

of the fear of heat prostration. I sought 
the two other Marys. Neither was right. 
I didn't have another clue. I had failed. 
" Get it?" yelled the city editor when he 
saw me come in. I shook my head. He 
didn't call me down. But his silence and 
his scowl and the realization that I had 
fallen down were enough. They had 
posted my detective story on the bulletin 
and patted me on the back, and yet I had 
not worked half so hard as in the hunt for 
the mysterious Mary. The only consola- 
tion was that no other paper succeeded in 
rinding her either. 

I am going into the details a bit more 
than I had planned. 

But I mustn't forget the boys — they 
are so good to me and will be to you. A 
fine, manly set, and just like a lot of 
brothers, I've found newspaper men to be. 
They will sympathize, encourage, and 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 31 

help you over many rough places they 
themselves have trod. 

In newspaperdom you live every minute. 
Life never stagnates, and you get very 
close to humanity. 

I'll have to race for my car. No, I'm 
not afraid to go home in the dark — it's a 
part of it, you know. 

With sincere wishes that you may 
choose for your best happiness, I must 
love and leave you. 

Annette. 

P. S. As I wrote " sincere wishes that 
you may choose for your best happiness " 
I felt like a hypocrite after giving you all 
this newspaper dope. It's a terrible game 
for a nice little girl like you, who never 
even heard of padding an expense account. 
Out of my heart I beg of you to go out 
into the world protected by that good man 



32 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

who loves you. It's pretty weepy, playing 
Sob Sis, and the tears aren't all crocodile. 
Don't follow me — follow " Tad." 

Anne. 




\ 



\ I I I 



w 




M 



^d 




pr^l 



fe 



<3 



GEORGIE SAYS ANY LITTLE HOME BEATS 
THE ROAD ALL HOLLER 

On the Road, Between Trains. 
Dear " Beastie:" 

If there is anything on the face of the 

earth more exasperating than to watch 

the last car of the train you've raced your 

legs of! to catch glide gracefully out of 

reach, while you stand gasping, hat and 

33 



34 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

veil awry, wildly gesticulating with hand- 
bag and umbrella, with the sickening sen- 
sation that you'll have to kill four hours 
before you can escape from the town 
you've just cleaned up from one end to the 
other, I'd like to know what it is ! (Breath, 
please.) 

That's what has just happened to me. 

I am beating my wings like a 

" Bird of the wilderness, 
Blithesome and cumberless," 

suddenly caught in a measly little station, 
with salt on its tail. And four whole hours 
before it can fly again! 

You might put in the time by taking a 
brisk walk, but I, who walk most all day 
long every day, don't need the exercise, 
thank you. You might even enjoy the 
scenery, but it has lost all of its pristine 
beauty for those of us who are so innocu- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 35 

lated with it that we simply can't stand 
any more. Rolling farms, squatty vil- 
lages, unkempt thoroughfares — they look 
alike, New England over. 

The dinky little station-master has just 
shut up the dinky little ticket window, 
shut up the dinky little stove, beside which 
I am sitting, shut his teeth on his dinky 
little pipe and gone home to his dinky 
dinner. He wanted to shut up the station, 
too, as he informed me was his usual cus- 
tom at noontime. I told him if I had to 
wait four hours on a railroad platform in 
January weather he'd lose his job, and he 
went off, jangling his keys, after first try- 
ing the ticket window from the outside 
and eyeing me the while with flagrant sus- 
picion. 

At last he and his mutterings are gone, 
as well as my train, the account of which 
may make you rather impatient. But re- 



36 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

member it doesn't make you half so impa- 
tient as it does me! I am telling you 
about it purposely, for it is an everyday 
part of the business life I lead, and that 
was what you wanted to know about, 
wasn't it? 

To digress a little, mother forwarded 
your New Year's letter to the address of 
my firm, who sent it on to me, as I shall 
not get back to the city for a week at least. 
Surely, this is a glorious opportunity to 
reply, if you'll be content with pencil 
marks until the ink thaws in my fountain 
pen. 

Joy, old girl, don't you ever let the jim- 
jams, the down-and-out, feel-like-thirty- 
cents, what is it they call it in polite soci- 
ety? — the indigoes — I mean the blues, 
knock out your beautiful optimistic spirit. 
Cheerfulness will do more for you than all 
the creeds and isms and even training in 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 37 

the world. A happy smile is a real busi- 
ness-getter. 

I know because I land the goods. 
That's how I lost that miserable train — 
smiling my way into a fat pocketbook, 
which gave me a new order. 

You and I have kind of lost track of 
each other lately, and you don't know how 
truly delighted I was to find that you 
selected me, among your other best 
friends, to add my little say. Whether or 
not it will find favor in your eyes, I am 
grateful for the genuine acknowledgment 
of true friendship. I mean that, and now 
that it's all spieled off, let's get down to 
rock bottom. 

You will be horrified to hear me name 
what you probably have already guessed 
I am — a book agent! Yes, I was hor- 
rified too, at first. It seemed so — well, 
so common. 



38 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I'm not ashamed of it any more, how- 
ever, for don't I have all the glad rags I 
want? Isn't my little account in the home 
savings bank swelling pretty fast? And 
isn't there a fine position with the firm 
staring me in the face? Well, there is, 
and I'll tell you all about it a little later 
on. Isn't it splendid to have your record 
each week prove that you're a howling 
success? Besides, I've learned such a lot 
about people, the way to meet them and 
win them over. Joy, you wouldn't recog- 
nize the shy little 'fraid cat you once went 
to school with in the self-reliant, deter- 
mined young person who just defied the 
station-master to lock her out. I've 
learned a lot of geography, too, about my 
native state, and have seen practically the 
whole of New England, which is my ter- 
ritory. 

Somehow, I feel as if your eyes will 






The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 39 

grow wide with scanning amazement 
when you have read thus far. Hence, my 
dear little innocent, let me pause right 
here long enough to assure you that I'm 
not a sport, in a sporty sense of that word. 
None of that for mine! Of course, I meet 
it everywhere, among all sorts of other 
travelling persons. Some of them are 
lonely and merely friendly; others lonely 
and more than friendly. I choose the 
merely friendly, when circumstances force 
lonely human beings together. 

The fresh kind, the pick-ups — well, 
just to warn you, I'll confess that at first 
I felt flattered and thought it was expected 
of me to be rather nice and perhaps I was 
a bit indiscreet. I soon found out there's 
nothing in it. A girl can be on the road 
anywhere in America and be let alone, if 
she wishes to be let alone. Sometimes, 
though, she is called upon to demonstrate 



40 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

the fact. The flirtations of the travelling 
world are beneath the notice of the girl 
who means business. 

I do. I'm all business, and always shall 
be so long as I'm in business. 

My firm deals mostly in rather expensive 
sets of encyclopedias. For the past eight 
months I have been demonstrating the in- 
dispensableness of a set of twenty-five 
volumes, which no home can afford to be 
without. I am familiar with every depart- 
ment in them and can talk them upside 
down. Really, I believe I should buy them 
for my own family, provided, of course, I 
had any. With this sublime faith in their 
true worth I can present them in a con- 
vincing way that gets a fair percentage of 
the country folk who live at a distance 
from libraries. The colored plates attract 
the children, while the easy payment plan 
loosens up the tight-wads. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 41 

From this town alone I've received five 
orders, which net me not a bad week's 
salary. Some weeks it's nearly double; 
others, half. The average is good, 
and the firm pays all my travelling ex- 
penses. 

I've hustled this week, as the farms in 
this village are wide apart. Some days I 
see a lot of people, others only a few. The 
firm furnishes me with a list of names, you 
know. It depends partly on whether or 
not I can get over the doorsill, which is 
the most difficult end of the sale, and 
partly on the weather. Once, one delight- 
ful spring day, I heard a woman say: 
" Oh, dear, I wish I was a book agent so's 
I could get out and enjoy the weather." 
Wonder how she'd like this bitter Janu- 
ary! 

I prefer working in the country to being 
near the cities, not only because the 



42 The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 

chances of good sales are better, but be- 
cause the farmers' wives don't slam their 
doors in my face nearly so often as the 
suburban housemaids. Nor are there any 
formidable speaking tubes to be slid 
through. In fact, I am often invited in to 
display my wares, especially in rural sec- 
tions where I have to drive and visitors 
are scarce. 

When some one yaps out: " Naw, we 
don't want nothin'," from a slit in the door, 
which is hastily banged and audibly locked 
as if I were a marauder, the visit doesn't 
take many minutes. But, once inside, an 
interview sometimes requires hemming 
and hawing for a whole morning, while 
pa and ma and granny and all sizes of in- 
fants are consulted, including the live- 
stock, or, rather, the products therefrom, 
which must be turned into cash to pay the 
installments. My sales depend a lot upon 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 43 

the price of butter, milk and eggs, and the 
plenitude thereof. 

Good book agents are always in demand. 
My firm keeps a standing advertisement 
for them in several of the leading maga- 
zines and Sunday papers. The first Mon- 
day in every month a long line of expect- 
ant faces appears at the manager's door. 
Each girl is given a separate interview, 
and, if she shows any of the qualities 
which go to make up a good seller, she is 
given a tryout. You see we have to get 
many new agents, for there are countless 
failures, pitiful failures, girls without per- 
sonality, quick intuition, tact, stick-to-it- 
iveness, who never do anything else but 
fail. (You, Joy, could never become one 
of these if you tried. Your letter con- 
vinces me of that.) 

Only a few are chosen, the trig, intelli- 
gent, adaptable ones, with the will to get- 



44 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

there. A self-conscious, timid, unprepos- 
sessing little body may sell the stuff upon 
the counter when the buyer is there to de- 
mand it and select what he wants; but it 
takes an aggressive determination coupled 
with infinite ingenuity to trot your goods 
deliberately into a private home and force 
an unexpected, unpremeditated purchase. 
You ought to compare the sellers on the 
road with the stay-behind-the-counters to 
see just what a vast difference there is in 
the ability required really to make good. 

The new position I spoke of, is to be in 
charge of hiring the help and starting 
them out. I would be an assistant to my 
present boss. He hinted at this once, and 
half promised the job to me, as the depart- 
ment is getting altogether too large for 
him to handle alone. Besides, he said that 
my experience would enable me to help 
select promising applicants, and my sue- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 45 

cess would encourage beginners to go and 
do likewise. When that glorious time 
comes, I'll be on Easy Street, with a fixed 
salary, and can live at Home Sweet 
Home. 

The work is endless. In every city lots 
of firms are looking for energetic sales- 
people to represent them. Here, at least, 
each has an equal chance, for advancement 
depends upon the canvasser herself. Also 
her raise in salary or commissions can be 
brought about by her own exertions. My 
firm does not limit the number of commis- 
sions; one could sell a thousand sets of 
books if one were able in a week and reap 
the profits. Once, at Christmas time, I 
cleared a fabulous sum in ten days. 

I had the choice of beginning at a small 
salary, nine dollars to be exact, or just 
commissions. Not knowing anything 
about the business, I chose the salarv, 



46 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

realizing that I'd soon be fired if I wasn't 
worth it, while it might be worth more to 
me in the meantime than commissions to 
the value of X. Soon I saw that I could do 
better on the other basis, so gave up my 
salary, which I have more than equalled, 
except during a few dull weeks. 

Joy, no man on earth can kid the way 
my boss can. The first day on my job he 
handed me the " con " game until I 
thought book agenting was a regular 
cinch. Then an expert seller, smartly 
dressed and about fifty, took me in tow 
and showed me how. That woman sold 
four sets in one day, and I've been wonder- 
ing ever since how she did it. The morn- 
ing of the third day I sallied forth alone. 
Different? Well, some! I'll never forget 
how-horribly it hurt to have the first door 
slammed in my face ! I cried my heart out 
with mortification, and nearly slumped, 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 47 

the way lots of other girls do at the first 
occurrence. 

Luckily, I stuck to it and soon learned 
a method of approach which made the in- 
sult rare, for one can be a canvasser and 
still be a lady, and people are beginning 
to realize it. The women employed by our 
firm are all ladies, or they wouldn't be in 
service long. The books are high-grade, 
standard books, and the firm's reputation 
irreproachable, so why should I be other 
than proud of my vocation? A homely 
trade to the high-minded, perhaps, but a 
money-making one and vastly interesting 
and varied in its study of different towns 
and their inhabitants. 

Joy, you aren't trained for any especial 
work. Why don't you try this? I believe 
you possess the inborn attributes and 
could easily acquire the rest. It's ready 
for you at any time, and it's not too hard 



48 The What-Skall-I-Do Girl 

when once you're on. Then, too, best of 
all, it's out-of-door life. My lungs are en- 
tirely healed from being in the open air. 
That's why I took it up in the first place, 
you know, — my wretched health. Now 
I'm in it for keeps and on the road to pros- 
perity. 

The dinky little station-master has just 
opened up the dinky little ticket window 
and is again eyeing me suspiciously. 
Guess I'll leave him to his conjectures, as 
I do you to yours, while I brave the cold 
and beg for a bite at the first farm house. 
Then, it'll be train time again, unless I 
stub my toe and miss it. 

If you want anything in my power to 
give, ask it of 

Devotedly yours, 

Georgie. 

P. S. My pen has thawed at last. Ex- 
cuse the stub. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 49 

P. P. S. Fve grown rather slangy, I'm 
afraid. Excuse that, too. 

P. P. P. S. Say, I remember Tad per- 
fectly. Should think I might, seeing I was 
awfully stuck on him once. If I thought I 
could dent his marble heart, I'd set my cap 
for him even now, you can just bet. 
You're a chump if you don't. Any little 
home beats the road all holler. Take Tad, 
for goodness' sake, if you can get him, and 
be thankful you don't have to be an old 
maid like 

Geo. 




CONSTANCE LIVES WHERE EVERYTHING 
GOES BY GONGS 

Orphans' Home, 
An hour before "All Lights Out." 

Dear Chum of Yesterday: 

Behold the proud mother of seventy- 
two — all boys ! 

A mother of six or seven children does 
not have much time to revel in real or 

50 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 51 

fancied affliction, does she? What should 
you say of a mother of sixty or seventy? 

If you want to forget yourself and your 
troubles completely, get into an orphans' 
home. Nothing under the sun erases self- 
pity so quickly as to be placed in the midst 
of hundreds of little motherless and father- 
less and homeless souls, who are thrown 
upon the mercy of charity or the state. 
They need all your love and pity. Your 
own private griefs vanish into nothingness 
before the sorrowful conditions surround- 
ing each child waif that comes to your 
care. 

You, dear old Chum, know the bitter- 
ness of having lost your parents. You are 
facing the world, in a sense, alone. Still, 
you have many friends who love you and 
who would help you if you were incapaci- 
tated and needy. You have glorious re- 
membrances of a happy childhood and 



52 The Wkat-Shall-I-Do Girl 

loving care. At home, you grew up in an 
atmosphere of refinement, among cultured 
people. You have had more advantages 
than are common to the average American 
girl who goes through the public high 
school. A few short months, or, at most, 
a year or two, would train you for almost 
any position you might choose, because 
you already have a solid foundation to 
build on. Best of all, your little heart has 
never been hardened. You stand, unem- 
bittered, though sorrowfully now, I'll ad- 
mit, ready to fight your own battles; but 
yours is the sorrow which comes in time 
to us all. O you aren't so badly off! 

Suppose you always had had to fight 
your way, even when a mere baby. Sup- 
pose your loving memories of dear ones 
gone were suddenly snatched away. Sup- 
pose no one cared what might become of 
you. Suppose your poor little nature had 



The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 53 

been so dwarfed by cruelty that you were 
afraid of every one. In a word, suppose 
your station in life had been lower than it 
fortunately is, and that you had been left 
an orphan at the age of five or seven. 

Ah, you are lucky if you but contrast 
yourself with one of these! You already 
have such a start. What wouldn't I give 
if I could send my children out into the 
world with just half, I would not ask any 
more, just half of your accomplishments 
and inheritance! 

This is negative comfort. I will stop 
preaching. Possibly you will excuse it 
when you read between the lines and re- 
member that I have practised all that I 
now preach. 

This institution has nearly three hun- 
dred inmates, from a few months old to 
eighteen, nineteen, and even twenty-one. 
Most of them leave at about eighteen, if 



54 The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 

proper places can be found for them, while 
a great many find homes long before that 
age, where they are either legally adopted 
or taken into families as helpers. Scarcely 
a week passes but an old little orphan goes 
to a new home, while a new little orphan 
arrives to take his place. 

I am called one of the officers, which 
amounts to being a matron for the older 
boys. There is another for the girls, 
while the boys and girls of the kinder- 
garten and baby age have a matron over 
each department. Then there are our 
assistants, and over us all the head matron 
and the superintendent. 

One of our buildings is devoted to 
schoolrooms. The teachers are usually 
young normal graduates who come here 
to get their early experience, and leave 
from year to year. Occasionally, how- 
ever, one falls in love with her work 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 55 

among these children and sticks, as do the 
matrons. 

It is quite probable that I shall stick 
forever, for what mother can desert her 
growing young ones? And how can I, all 
the more, because a fresh youngster comes 
into my department every other week or 
so? There is a constant procession tied 
to my heartstrings. 

This very winter a splendid offer from 
a larger and better known institution came 
to me, which would have meant less care 
with more pay, but how could I leave my 
boys? Xo, my work is here and here I 
shall keep on, and if, after years of careful 
guidance, some of my boys are started out 
into life on the right paths that will be re- 
ward enough for any one. Saintly? Oh, 
no, I'm not! It's just the mother instinct 
within me, which will out, like murder. 

Did you ever visit an orphan asylum? 



56 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

If you haven't, I know you would be 
amazed at the wonderful system under 
which the children are trained. I cannot 
begin to picture it to you vividly enough, 
or to give you any idea of the satisfaction 
every foster mother receives when she wit- 
nesses the transformation of a wizen- 
faced, half-starved, hunted-looking little 
creature into a robust, healthy, normal 
child. 

They come to us from all kinds of 
homes. Some have had fair comforts; 
others, none. A very few have been 
happy, until death stepped in and left 
them unprovided for, and it is hardest for 
them. The great majority, though, have 
always been poor, and many of these des- 
titute ones have been so utterly neglected 
and abused that the Home is an asylum in 
the truest sense of the word. 

One of my boys was brought up in a 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 57 

shack in the woods by a shiftless, drunken 
father. The ground had always been his 
only bed, until he was given a little white 
iron one in the dormitory, and he had ac- 
tually hunted acorns for food, like a young 
savage. Another child's mother, who 
" worked out " until she worked out liter- 
ally and died, used to lock up their mean 
rooms early in the morning, give her little 
girl five cents to buy her dinner with, and 
leave her on the street until she came back 
at night. Childlike, the nickel often went 
for cheap candy instead of food, or, at 
best, fancy crackers or a piece of frosted 
pie for nourishment. You ought to have 
seen the sickly little thing that came 
to us! 

Each orphan has his story, and each is 
more pitiful than the last. You have read 
many sad tales of the lives of orphans, and 
probably all of them are true. Investiga- 



58 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

tion shows us that the real histories of 
these unfortunates surpass even fiction. 

Some arrive with their few little clothes 
neatly mended and packed in a pasteboard 
suit box; others bring nothing but their 
ragged selves. Many are inoculated 
with various skin diseases, and incipient 
tuberculosis has to be watched for. All 
need to have their teeth looked after, and 
it is an interesting thing to see how thank- 
ful — yes, thankful — an orphan is when 
it is his turn to get rid of an old acher. No 
fuss or petting or bribes here. It's, 
" Quick, now, it's your turn, Peter," and 
Peter obediently opens his mouth. These 
tots would shame our pampered brothers 
and sisters, and even ourselves, with their 
bravery when the Home dentist makes his 
rounds. 

Everything goes by gongs — gongs and 
prayers. At six in the morning the rising 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 59 

bell reverberates through the corridors, 
and the multitude of little orphans tumble 
out of bed in their little white nighties 
on to their knees to open the day with a 
half-awake prayer. By half-past six they 
have formed ranks, ready to march, two 
by two, down the long hallways and stairs 
into the dining room in a connecting build- 
ing. Here are rows of tables for twelve, 
each covered with a cheery red cloth and 
steaming dishes plentifully heaped. Either 
a matron or one of the larger girls stands 
at the head of each table, ready to serve. 
The children file quietly in and take their 
places standing at the back of their chairs. 
Another gong, and the chairs are pulled 
out quietly and all sit down together, bow- 
ing their heads. A soft little bell is the 
signal for chanting grace, after which they 
fall to. On what? — oatmeal with milk 
and sugar, and bread, large thick slices, 



60 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

sometimes with, more often without but- 
ter, if it's breakfast; soup or chowder, 
with potatoes for the older ones, and 
maybe pie or cookies, for dinner; bread 
and molasses or apple sauce, or berries in 
their season, and the best gingerbread you 
ever ate, if it's supper. But the dinner 
they like the best, except, of course, 
Christmas and Thanksgiving which are 
feasts, comes on Sundays and consists of 
brown bread and beans. The littlest chil- 
dren have milk to drink, and sometimes 
there is plenty for all when the Home cows 
have any to spare. This is only a sample 
of the diet, but it is a fair one. In gar- 
den time there are fresh vegetables and in 
apple years we are usually bountifully 
supplied. 

When I first came to the Home I was 
rather surprised at what seemed to me the 
coarseness of the food, but when I saw 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 61 

how well the orphans thrived on it and 
realized how much better it was than they 
had ever been accustomed to before, and 
considered the enormous puzzle of feeding 
so many upon the stipulation provided, I 
understood the careful management a bit 
better. After all, it's what you're used to 
that counts. These children have never 
known the delicacies we have always seen 
upon our tables at home, so they don't 
know what they miss. Perhaps they are 
better off for it, too, for a healthier lot I 
never beheld. 

To go on with the day — after a suitable 
time a gong says " Fold your napkins," 
which they silently do, for no conversation 
is allowed during mealtime. " Ting-a- 
ring-a-ring! " and the process of getting in 
line and shoving chairs up to the table 
takes but a few seconds. This time the 
children march into chapel for a short 



62 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

service, in which all participate and seem 
to enjoy immensely. 

School begins at nine o'clock, and lasts 
the same number of hours as any public 
school. The classes are divided by grades 
and conducted in the most thorough man- 
ner by competent teachers. 

There are play hours and duty hours, 
after school and at noon and on Saturdays. 
The boys are taught to do the " chores " 
around the Home farm and chop the wood, 
while the girls take care of the dormitories, 
attend to the dish-washing by turns, and, 
as soon as they are old enough, learn how 
to cook and sew and assist in the laundry 
at the mangle. They are taught to be 
proficient housekeepers, taking up all 
branches, just as they would in their own 
homes under careful mothers. 

Even the very little girls soon learn to 
push their needles in and out, for a matron 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 63 

cannot do all the mending herself. It is 
a pleasant sight to see a whole group of 
happy faces gathered together in the big 
sewing room, where the girls' matron 
superintends the fine art of keeping 
clothes in repair, an art often neglected by 
mothers in private homes, but one which 
every little girl ought to be taught. They 
darn such mammoth holes for themselves 
and the boys that it is almost impossible 
to tell where the darns leave off and the 
original stockings begin! Often it's a 
puzzle to fit a patch within a patch, for the 
garments that be are mended as long as 
there is anything left to mend. 

The huge pile of petticoats, aprons, 
dresses, underwear and stockings being- 
disposed of for the girls, they then pitch 
into the blouses and hose of the boys, 
though the heavy trouser patches fall to 
the lot of unlucky me. 



64 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

The children do not dislike this work, 
as it might be supposed. They are made 
to take an interest in it, and really enjoy 
the sociability of the circle. Like it or not, 
they all have to do it, and do it properly. 
There are frequent rippings out. Some of 
the girls are natural little dressmakers and 
are invaluable in making over the clothes 
which charitable persons are continually 
sending to the Home. Our orphans do 
not wear uniforms, and that's one com- 
fort. 

Work does not take up all of the time, 
and it is always regulated according to 
the age and strength of the child. No one 
is overworked, but each is taught to be 
useful around the house and farm in order 
that he or she may be fortified against that 
day when the clang of the iron gate makes 
the Home a memory of the past and the 
great big busy world looms up invitingly. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 65 

What almost broke my heart in the be- 
ginning was to see the lack of what all 
children need the most, a mother's love. 
Care they have. Religion and schooling 
they have. Training for useful men and 
women they have. All necessary medical 
treatment they have. But a mother's 
love — who can really give that but a 
mother? 

' You're my new mamma. I love you," 
greeted me from all sides the very first 
day I became matron. The impulse was 
to clasp these mites of humanity to my 
heart and lavish upon them all that was 
in me, but the head matron checked my 
first attempted demonstration. 

" Ah, don't be too affectionate or you 
won't be a good disciplinarian," she cau- 
tioned. " The older children are so quick 
to take advantage, and remember they are 
the leaders of your seventy odd. A strict 



66 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

rein must be held. Slack it up ever so lit- 
tle and you'll lose your hold! " 

She was perfectly right. If I had spent 
a few minutes petting each child each day 
there wouldn't have been time for any- 
thing else, for, of course, it wouldn't be 
fair to fondle one and snub another. The 
only successful way for a person to con- 
trol a number of children is to play no 
favorites. Treat all alike. Love each a 
little, none too much. Nor is this easy, 
because some appeal to you more than 
others, being prettier or uglier or more 
affectionate or sicklier or more precocious 
— a thousand qualities endear some and 
repulse others. Every mother of a large 
family has her favorites whether or not 
she admits it to others or to herself. My 
boys are all interesting and I love them 
all alike, apparently. 

After the evening prayer, as I tuck my 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 67 

littlest lambs into their downy white beds, 
they always stretch up their tiny arms and 
pucker up their rosy lips for a good night 
kiss. It may not be healthful for me, but 
what can I do — refuse to kiss the little 
motherless sons? Good is no name for the 
way they cuddle down and go to sleep 
afterwards — these babies, satisfied with 
just a crumb of love. 

When sickness strikes us we care for all 
the minor cases, but if it is serious or con- 
tagious the child has to be sent to a hos- 
pital in a neighboring town. That is the 
time I feel the great cry for a mother's 
love in my children. How they dread to 
leave me, and how their lonely faces light 
up when I go to the ward to visit them on 
my afternoon off duty ! 

Our Home is not for orphans only, but 
children who have lost one parent are fre- 
quently put here to board at a very nom- 



68 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

inal sum by the remaining parent who has 
no other means of providing for the little 
creatures. 

Well, one day I stepped into the fifth 
grade to speak to the teacher a moment, 
just as she was saying: "This is letter 
day. Those of you who have mothers 
may write to them. Those of you who 
have fathers may write to them. And 
those of you who have neither may write 
to your uncles or aunts or friends or any 
one you please." Immediately forty-five 
pens began to squeak across the blue-lined 
sheets of paper. A slender colored child 
of nine sat motionless in her corner seat, 
with the tip of her penholder pressed be- 
tween her lips. Her hand shot up, pres- 
ently, and at the teacher's nod she lisped: 
" Pleathe, Mith White, I've thought and 
thought, and I ain't got no one. Who'll 
I write to?" 



Tlie What-Shall-I-Do Girl 69 

" May she write to me? I would be de- 
lighted to have a letter from Susan," I 
interrupted. She did, and here is what 
she told me: 

" Dear Boys Matron — 

' I am well. I hop you are well. I wish 
you was my mamma. I ant never had no 
mamma, but mabe if I keep my dres klean 
some one will dopt me. Yore wach is han- 
som and so is yore rings. When I git big 
nuff to git marred I shal have lots of 
joolry to. Christmas I got a book. It 
were to hard for me but the pikshures is 
grat. I wrot Santa for a mamma. Loosy 
sed he woud give you any thin you assed 
for. Praps he dident have nufT mammas 
to go roun. Six of us gurls assed em often 
him. Pleas anser. 

" Your loving, 

" Susan." 



70 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Yes, they all want a " mamma/' and we 
poor matrons are hard put to it to keep 
from mothering them too much. Except 
for that one thing, do you know I really 
believe I'd rather have a child of mine 
brought up in an orphan asylum than in 
the average private home? Here they are 
not only educated and trained, but they 
have to be respectful and obedient. Their 
health isn't ruined by improper food, 
sweets and over-indulgence. The regular 
life, with its early to bed and early to rise, 
does all that has ever been claimed for it. 
No wonder Rousseau trotted his own five 
little Rousseaus into a home for found- 
lings as soon as they were born, though it 
must have been rather trying for their 
mother! He thought they would be better 
reared, and they probably were. 

Speaking of obedience, I wish some of 
those weak-minded mothers who bewail 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 71 

their inability to cope with their mischie- 
vous little tots of six and eight could see 
the way my boys mind me. They know 
when I speak I mean business, even 
though our Home does not terrorize its 
inmates with wire thrashings and horse 
whippings, like some institutions I have 
read about. The most drastic measure we 
can use is to send an offender to the super- 
intendent, and that is a last resort, after 
moral suasion, extra work in play time, 
the denial of stipulated privileges for a 
fixed time, and, oh, ever so many other 
means have all failed. 

I remember one day in particular, last 
summer, when all of my boys went into 
the woods for a picnic. The anticipation 
of this treat had helped to keep them un- 
usually good for two weeks. A huge pail 
full of cucumbers fresh from the garden, 
and an enormous basket, with cookies in 



72 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

one side and common crackers in the other, 
were joyfully carried by four of the big 
boys, while each of the seventy-two 
brought his own little tin cup. At noon 
Bert and Frank were delegated to run 
back to the Home, which wasn't over a 
good quarter of a mile distant for we were 
in our own woods, and bring up a steam- 
ing kettle of corn chowder from the 
kitchen. How they enjoyed it! 

But this is what I am coming to. The 
boys built a rude camp out of some fallen 
logs, and covered it over with pieces of 
old carpet and gunnysack which they had 
treasured, heaven knows how long, for the 
occasion. Presently a shriek of joy 
reached me. Some one had discovered a 
rusty, broken-down stove. " See what 
we've got ! " they yelled in chorus, drag- 
ging the heavy old iron toward their tent. 
It was midsummer. The woods were full 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 73 

of dry pine needles and slash. Forest fires 
were the dread of the community. I hesi- 
tated, and for a moment doubted my own 
boys. I clapped my hands, and those 
nearest me became instantly silent, silen- 
cing those around them in turn. " Boys," 
I cried, after explaining the danger, " if I 
let you keep that stove, how many of you 
will promise on your honor never to build 
a fire in it?" They promised. And do 
you realize what a terrible temptation it 
must have been to real live boys to have 
had that old thing in their possession, and 
lots of wood, and yet to have been denied 
the fun of making it go? But they kept 
their words, every son of them. How's 
that? 

Picnics and berrying trips are frequent 
in summer, though the greatest event of 
the season is the annual automobile ride, 
made possible by charitable persons in the 



74 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

surrounding community who have cars. 
It would take a whole book to describe the 
infinite delight of that day. Nothing ap- 
proaches it except Christmas, when they 
give an entertainment in a public hall. In 
winter the children slide and skate, while 
the warm weather finds them in the play- 
ground swings, or at their croquet set, or 
playing ball — real base-ball, too, with as 
good a team as any school. 

Sunday holds one all-the-year-round 
treat in the shape of a stick of candy, usu- 
ally peppermint or checkerberry, for each 
child. Even the older ones look forward 
to this, for it's about all the candy they 
have, unless some is sent in. " Thank 
you," from orphans means something 
more than just a polite term. You ought 
to see their glowing eyes when these 
harmless, striped sticks of sweet are dis- 
tributed ! 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 75 

I took up this kind of work to forget 
something, which, I must admit, I have 
had no time to remember. When girls 
have a sudden break in their lives they 
often rush on to the stage or into charity 
work. The papers are full of accounts of 
rich young women who drown some 
worldly sorrow by working among the 
poor. 

But I was not rich, and it wasn't easy 
for me to begin, for, though I only wanted 
a livable salary, I simply could not give 
my time for just the love of doing good. 
I could offer everything except money — 
my youth, health, strength and devotion; 
but, at the same time, I must manage to 
maintain myself. 

I wrote to a school for social workers to 
see if they knew of any opening, and re- 
ceived a courteous reply stating that the 
demand was for trained workers nowa- 



76 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

days, together with a deckle-edged, beau- 
tifully gotten up catalogue of their school 
for college graduates and courses for those 
already in college. Next I tried a church 
charity, but both the summer schools and 
play grounds had their corps of assistants 
all selected months ahead of time. Ex- 
perienced teachers filled the settlement 
houses. I inquired at the board of chari- 
ties but there wasn't a vacancy anywhere. 
It seemed, save for the matter of dona- 
tions, as if one couldn't be charitable with- 
out being trained ! 

Then this opportunity turned up 
through an educational agency, where I 
met the Home superintendent, who was 
interviewing some applicants. He took 
me in as assistant matron at sixteen dol- 
lars a month and found. Now I receive 
twenty, which is more than ample for my 
needs. Of course I dress in the simplest 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 77 

possible way. It would be wicked to 
parade fine clothes before these unfor- 
tunates, though I always try to wear 
pretty, bright colors. My two weeks' 
vacation takes up what I save each year, 
and the rest goes toward little dainties for 
my children when they're sick. 

You may be luckier than I. If you apply 
right away at some diocesan house you 
may get some playroom work for next 
summer. Vacations bring vacancies, and, 
though I'm not authorized to say this, the 
kindergarten matron hints that she may 
go to another institution this coming 
April. If she does, there's a chance for 
you, for I know my recommendation 
would count a whole lot with our super- 
intendent. 

You might prefer some different depart- 
ment in philanthropic work, for there are a 
great many branches, homes for neglected 



78 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

children, juvenile courts, institutions for 
the blind and for the lame, settlement 
houses, district social workers, ad libitum. 
But they all want trained workers. 

Now, there is plenty of room in my 
three-quarters bed, and I haven't had a 
visitor since I came to the Home. Would 
you like to come up here and just see for 
yourself what institutional life is like? 
Do, dear old Chummie, come up and let's 
review our yesterdays. 

I should immediately take you out into 
the yard to play a game the Home young- 
sters love, where you sing " London Bridge 
is falling down, falling down," and when 
it fell I should say: " My fair lady, choose. 
Which would you rather have, seventy 
children and no husband, or a husband 
and—?" 

Which would you, now, honest? I 
know which I would. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 79 

The lights have been out for some time. 
Even my stealthy candle is flickering its 
last. This (*) stands for a good night 
kiss from your very sleepy 

Constance. 




LOUISE'S BONNETS ARE SONNETS 

" Mademoiselle Louise" 
Countryside, Maine. 

Dearie: 

Roxana and I have just returned from 
dinner. As usual, our boarding-house mis- 
tress regaled us with roast pork and apple 
pie. Such quantities of porcine products 

80 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 81 

have I consumed this winter that I hon- 
estly expect to be turned into a pig like 
the baby in " Alice in Wonderland." Pre- 
pare yourself for a letter full of grunts and 
squeals. 

Roxana is rooting in the front room of 
our shop, trimming the windows, I guess. 
Roxana is my partner, and the dandiest 
girl in the whole world. She has made the 
most out of me, when there wasn't very 
much to do with. 

I can't begin to tell you how amazed I 
was to hear from you. It has indeed been 
ages since we corresponded, though I have 
thought of you often and often and still 
have your class picture reposing in my 
fishnet under the mantelpiece in our sit- 
ting-room. But what confounded me was 
the fact that you thought I knew enough 
to tell you anything. I never supposed 
that any one ever thought I knew beans. 



82 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I was always so negative and insignificant 
and backward and never the head of any- 
thing in my life, until Roxana discovered 
me. 

I am, now, thanks to her, and Fll tell 
you how to be " some punkins," too, if you 
like. 

Dearie, I know you have brains and can 
work with your head, but if they aren't 
trained don't despair. There is always 
something you can do if you want to hard 
enough. Even I have found my place. 
Let that comfort you, for what stupid 
Louise Jackson could do, surely brilliant 
Joy Kent can more than equal. 

Know, then, little lady, that we, Roxana 
and I, own and run the " Mademoiselle 
Louise," Elite Millinery, the only estab- 
lishment worth noticing of its kind for 
miles around. We put the two former 
milliners, who had been here since the 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 83 

year one, completely to rout after our first 
season, and have been making money, 
hand over fist, at least, way above our 
expenses, ever since. 

Our little shop is on the main street, 
right in the centre of the business section, 
such as it is in the country. We have a 
tiny front parlor, and a large, light work- 
room, where I am now penning this 
screed. Two plate glass windows are our 
pride, and we keep them filled with beau- 
tiful and artistic creations of fashionable 
headgear, which we constantly replace by 
other still more attractive specimens. 
Roxy has a regular fad for window trim- 
ming, an accomplishment in itself, of 
which she certainly is a master. 

She's a wonder, and can do 'most any- 
thing. Besides windows, she does all the 
buying of stock, sells all the hats, gets up 
little advertising schemes that do the busi- 



84 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

ness and writes them out herself for the 
two weekly papers. (You've got to keep 
advertising to get anywhere, in the coun- 
try more than in the city, for the back- 
woods folks all take the papers and read 
every word in them. You ought to see 
how they drive in when we advertise a 
special sale. Talk about bargain hunters; 
the city people aren't in it!) Roxana also 
tends to the hiring of help, when we have 
any, keeps the books, makes improve- 
ments as fast as she thinks we can afford 
them, and, in fact, looks out for the entire 
business end, just like a man, for I'm a 
dismal failure and no help to her at all. 
She knows how to make money grow out 
of nothing and is just full of new ideas. 

My share in the work wouldn't amount 
to much without Roxana's. Still, I can 
see every hat I make in my mind's eye, 
before it's begun. I do all the designing; 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 85 

and most of the trimming. Roxy helps 
me, doing mostly the tedious tasks, the 
making, linings, coverings, bands, and 
finishings, working like a Trojan, while 
I concoct bits of chiffon and velvet and 
ribbon and lace, together with gay 
feathers and dainty little flowers into veri- 
table dreams. Sometimes, in the rush 
season, we get an apprentice, as Roxana 
is often kept in the parlor trying on. 

I always made my own hats when I was 
a girl; my Aunt Martha taught me how, 
and she taught me mighty well. It's a 
knack, I guess, to put certain colors and 
materials together that blend well. They 
suggest themselves to me, without any ap- 
parent effort on my part, just natural in- 
stinct. I can turn any old ribbon into a 
splashing bow, and change over your last 
year's hat so you wouldn't recognize it. 

Madame always said my bonnets were 



86 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

sonnets. So I got on very fast with her, 
and that was where I met Roxana, at the 
Bon Ton Shop, where we both learned our 
trade. She had been there nearly a year 
when I began my three months of giving 
my time. Poor Roxy, she didn't succeed 
very well in the workroom, but was such 
a crackerjack seller that Madame kept her 
in the sales department most of the time. 
Roxy didn't like the arrangement very 
well because it left her too little time to 
learn the trade thoroughly. No sooner 
did she demonstrate that she could dispose 
of last season's hats than she was made 
to do it continually. 

At the end of three months I began to 
draw a salary so small that modesty for- 
bids my bragging about it. Presently 
Madame discovered that I could design, 
and I got a microscopic raise. 

Meanwhile, Roxy was put in charge of 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 87 

the workroom to keep the girls busy. You 
just ought to see the amount of work she 
got out of those apprentices, when she 
wasn't selling hats! She and I were de- 
voted chums from the minute we first laid 
our eyes on each other. We always 
lunched together, and she would astound 
me with the most astonishing plans for 
becoming rich over night that she fairly 
took my breath away. One day she came 
out flat, in the middle of a chocolate eclair, 
and put it right up to me like this: 

" Louise, do you realize that you and I 
are doing most of the work that's being 
done at the Bon Ton? Your planning 
saves Madame the cost of a high-priced 
designer, for which you receive the im- 
moderate figure of seven dollars a week; 
while I grind stuff out of the poor girls 
and sell more in a single day than all of 
them put together." 



88 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

" Shall we strike and demand another 
raise?" I suggested. 

"Raise! Fiddlesticks!" she exploded. 
" What would that amount to — two dol- 
lars more for the next year, maybe? No, 
we're clever, if we only knew it," she cried. 
" Let's quit and start a little shop of our 
own, say in time for the Easter opening. 
That will give us a chance to buy up some 
odds and ends and we can work nights 
and Sundays making hats to sell for our- 
selves. We needn't leave until the last 
minute, say three weeks before Easter. 
Madame always has to get extra help at 
that time, anyway, and her opening will 
be pretty well cared for, so it won't be 
leaving her exactly in the lurch. Besides, 
we can't afford to leave at any dull time 
of the year, for our first opening must 
show money and we can't pay rent on an 
idle store waiting for the proper time 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 89 

either." Roxy raved on, while I sat ap- 
palled at her daring. 

Well, we did it, just as she had planned. 

Roxana selected this village because 
she had once visited here and knew that 
lots of the old families had plenty of spon- 
dulics and kept themselves up to date. 

We hired our store without the slightest 
knowledge where the second month's rent 
would come from (we had saved enough 
for the first, or, rather, Roxy had). Rents 
are cheap here. 

The next thing was to name the shop. 
" It must be something Frenchy," Roxana 
insisted, " and we must keep ' Paris ' 
models in the windows. People flock after 
foreign things and think they're getting 
something chic, if it only has some kind 
of a high-sounding label on it." Finally 
she decided to call it after me, for my 
name is really French, you know. I 



90 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

agreed. It's always best to agree with 
Roxana. 

Our stock consisted of two dozen or so 
trimmed hats, and a motley assortment of 
frames and flowers and remnants, picked 
up one by one from Madame and the de- 
partment store sales. Our first hats were 
pretty, inexpensive and stylish. 

Roxy, the Foxy, plunked a notice in the 
papers as soon as we opened the shop. 
My, didn't we work like the very dickens, 
night and day ! When the great day came 
for the Easter opening, our feet scarcely 
touched earth. And we sold every last 
hat in the place and had orders for five 
more. Customer after customer came and 
went. We found a small boy to deliver 
the boxes to those who lived in the imme- 
diate village, that evening, thus keeping 
our limited stock of ready-to-wears on 
hand to show to the next who came in 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 91 

during the afternoon. When a lady liked 
one that was marked " sold," she left her 
order for a similar shape, so that from that 
opening we took in enough business to 
keep us busy for some time. 

Never will Roxy and I forget the joy of 
that first day. We danced a jig all over 
the shop after closing hour, and hugged 
each other 'most to death. We came, we 
saw, we succeeded! I suppose the chief 
reason was because our prices were rea- 
sonable and because we offered something 
different than the old-time milliners had 
displayed year after year. Roxy vows the 
name did it. 

We felt that we had earned the right 
to some credit and ordered a lot of new 
stock. I planned and trimmed away, 
while Roxana met the expenses, and found 
us a new boarding house. Soon a new rug 
found its way to our bare parlor floor, and 



92 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

little by little the front room of our shop 
became a tastefully fitted up show-room. 
We used up everything available, making 
dainty little effects out of almost nothing. 

Roxy oiled the wheels and has kept 
them going ever since. Except for our 
first order of stock on credit, which we got 
paid up after a while, though it worried 
me to pieces to owe anything and made 
Roxy laugh at me, we have kept free from 
debt and made a pretty good thing out of 
our experiment, so that now we are saving 
a little. 

" Once a customer always a customer/' 
is our motto. 

Madame heard of our success and of- 
fered us our jobs back at any time in case 
we returned to the city, but Roxana said 
she thought we were better off here where 
the living is cheaper, and I guess we are. 
Anyway, we are both happier than we 






The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 93 

ever were before. Roxy hasn't any " own 
folks," while I, as you know, have only 
the aunt who brought me up. Our little 
shop is the best home either of us ever 
knew, for it's full of real home-spirit and 
good-will. 

Perhaps I ought not relate what I am 
going to tell you, but this is what helped 
me to make up my mind to " amount to 
something." One night I was lying out 
in the hammock on the side piazza when 
I heard Aunt Martha say to my uncle from 
the other side of the open window: "Al- 
fred, what on earth are we going to do 
with Louise when she gets through school? 
I suppose she'll have to stay at home " 
(the tone was anything but desirous), 
" for she hasn't brains enough to go into 
a business office. I doubt if she'll ever 
make anything of herself." 

" She's a good housekeeper, isn't she? " 



94 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

my uncle broke in irritably, from behind 
his newspaper. " Let her help you around 
the house," and therewith dismissed the 
whole subject of my future. My aunt 
sighed. I can hear her yet — a long-suf- 
fering, martyr-like sigh, because I might 
have to remain at home. 

I didn't have any brains — well enough 
I knew that! But I was good for some- 
thing, and Roxy says — but Roxy is 
biased and thinks altogether too much of 
me. 

One thing I forgot to tell you. We, 
Roxy and I, go to the city twice a year 
to " study the Boston and New York 
styles," as it's announced by clever Roxy. 
So far, we haven't been able to afford the 
trip to New York and have to study the 
New York styles in Boston. The little 
deception is practised by all the up-and- 
coming country milliners, and sells lots 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 95 

of hats. The latest from New York is al- 
most as enticing as the latest from Paris. 
After all, it's nearly true, for we do see all 
the imported stock. Even rich milliners, 
like Madame, sometimes advertise that 
they have gone abroad to prepare for the 
next season, when they don't leave the city 
at all. It's a trick of the trade, harmless 
and profitable, if a bit dishonest. 

But this fall, this very coming fall, we're 
going to see the great metropolis, not only 
to look at styles but to see the sights. I'd 
be scared to death if it wasn't for Roxana. 
She's a regular lioness and not afraid of 
anything. 

To sum up, these facts stand out clearly 
from our little venture : We own our souls. 
We save more, after paying our rent, 
board and stock, than we ever could have 
hoped to in the city on salary. We have 
a cozy little sitting-room and bed-room, 



96 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

for our first happy home. We have our 
place and count for something with these 
fine, large-hearted country people, among 
whom we have made many friends. It is 
enough. More than we anticipated. 

Dearie, if you have any liking for milli- 
nery, we will gladly apprentice you right 
now. We have got to get some one to 
help, anyway, and it would be a fine 
chance for you to learn the trade under a 
not too strenuous teacher. We could pay 
you a little, though not much, while in the 
city you'd probably have to give three 
months of your time. Roxy is lovely and 
an inspiration worth coming for alone. 
Perhaps, later, we could get you a good 
position with Madame, for our partner- 
ship isn't big enough for three. 

I believe you'd make a dandy buyer, 
you've always had so much money to 
spend, and they get fine pay. Madame 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 97 

usually does her own, but her business has 
increased so much lately that she offered 
to send Roxana abroad on the job, this 
summer. Roxy says she won't leave me, 
but I shall do my Christian duty and try to 
make her take advantage of such a chance. 
If you'll come while she is gone, I'm sure 
she'd not hesitate a minute. 

Write me again very soon. I shall be 
anxious. 

From your loving friend, 

Louise. 

N. B. Roxana always O. K.'s every- 
thing before it goes out. She says: " Tell 
that little Joy girl to nab that little Tad- 
pole, and let us fill her orders for the very 
latest styles from Paris, including babies' 
bonnets." Roxy is an awful joker, but I 
must say T agree with her this time. 

Lou. 
January the fourth. 




ESTELLE CAME NEAR DYING IN HER 
FLIMSY BALLET SKIRT 

Central House, No matter where, 
Because I sha'n't be here to-morrow. 

How do you do, Honey? 

You must be up against it pretty hard 

to come to me. Think of your asking me 

for real advice! T wonder what or who 

98 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 99 

or where you imagine I am, anyway, that 
you consider me worth looking up in dis- 
tress. When I took to the boards I 
thought that the great little town of May- 
wood cast a disapproving eye upon me, 
which said plainly enough : " I disown 
you. You're no longer a daughter of 
mine! You're an outcast — a lost soul 
seeking perdition in the quickest possible 
way ! " Yet you write me for advice, 
Honey! 

I have laughed and cried over your let- 
ter. Laughed to hear you modestly say 
that you would be willing to take a 
" second " part in an opera to begin with — 
to begin with, hark'e ! — because you could 
warble some little tunes in the old home 
song-book. Why, little one, to sing second 
would rank right next to the prima donna 
and would require not only a remarkable 
voice but probably years of striving and 



100 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

practice. For my part, I should die with 
joy to get anything above the chorus! 

How harsh this must sound to you! Yet 
the reality is so much harsher that I 
couldn't for a moment deceive your frail 
hopes. 

I laughed even louder when I realized 
that an old home girl was taking me and 
my life seriously. " She must think I'm a 
star," I whispered to myself, " or she never 
would have stooped to question me." A 
star? I'm about as near being a star as 
that scintillating, five-point piece of gilt 
paper pasted on the crown of any queen 
of the fairies in any amateur extravaganza 
is apt to shine in the heavens. The only 
starry thing about me is my name, which 
means a star. Here is where the weeps 
come in. I'm not even a shooting star. 
Just a flickering firefly! 

I've cried off all the paint that wouldn't 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 101 

wash off, sitting alone in this cheap, stuffy 
little room, with your letter in my lap, 
wondering how to answer it in the fairest 
and wisest way for your own good. In 
my heart there is a soft, happy little feel- 
ing to think that one of the old girls I 
loved so well long ago should turn to me 
in time of trouble. 

Before me lie your ambitions, your un- 
tried hopes, your longing for the " won- 
derful world." You should not have left 
out the " fearful " along with the " won- 
derful." But that marks the difference 
between inexperience and experience, be- 
tween youth and age. Yes, I know, we 
are exactly the same number of years old ; 
but you probably look like a baby beside 
of weary, travel-stained me ! 

Beside your fresh little self with its un- 
known career, my own struggles for fame 
upon the stage dance before my eyes. I 



102 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

was once as ambitious as you, more so, 
vastly more so, in reality, for I knew what 
I wanted to do, had a fixed aim and cen- 
tred all my energies around it, ever since 
I was old enough to know anything. The 
stage was to be my life. I did not have to 
ask anybody what I should do, and those 
who advised me against it of their own 
free will, I did not heed. I couldn't. It 
was in me. I w T as born to it, or thought 
I was. The love of it surpassed every- 
thing else that ever came into my 
life. 

You remember the little church dra- 
matics and school plays? Wasn't I al- 
ways the leading lady? I foresaw myself 
a radiant star, outshining all the rest of 
the most famous cast ever known, with 
the whole world bowing at my feet. And 
now, after years of struggle, struggle, 
struggle, what am I ? 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 103 

I'm the leading lady at a One-Night 
Stand! 

(Quick, the drop curtain! I couldn't 
bear the hisses, I've tried so hard!) 

This company is a pretty good one. 
The manager treats us like human beings. 
As a rule, we have enough to eat and get 
our pay on time. 

You would turn up your saucy nose at 
this musty, dilapidated old ark of a Central 
House, and yet it's a palace compared to 
some of the places I've slept in. Many a 
time, in short jumps, we've landed in a 
railroad station in the middle of the night 
and sat huddled up until morning because 
we didn't have the price of a bed. 

Twice, when the show didn't pan out as 
well as was expected, I've been stranded 
in little God-forsaken, jumping-off places 
out in the Middle West. The first time I 
pawned my watch and rings and raised 



104 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

enough to get back home. But the last 
time, just listen to this, you little stage 
aspirant, the last time I didn't have a red! 
Neither did any one else, except the man- 
ager, who skipped immediately for the 
safest and most convenient place in the 
world — " parts unknown.'' 

The men of the troupe freighted it back. 
The girls traded some of their trinkets for 
cash, or else picked up the acquaintance of 
some travelling salesmen who charitably 
volunteered to look out for them. I went 
to the only hotel, or apology for one, and 
became a waitress. It took me over three 
months to earn what I owed for the time 
the company had failed to make a go of 
it and was strapped there, together with 
enough for home transportation. 

The others all said I was a fool, and per- 
haps I was. They got out of the prairies 
in less than a week, while I stayed behind 






The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 105 

miserably alone until I could start out free 
and clear again on my road to fame. That 
three months' change was a good thing, 
however, for I got nicely rested up, living 
a regular life in a fixed habitation again, 
after so many months on the road. The 
people were kind, in their homely rough 
way, and two men in particular fairly tried 
to insist upon my borrowing the money 
to return home with of them. I didn't 
take it. I just couldn't. No coin for me 
from strange men, not even as a loan — 
my twig was bent early in a different direc- 
tion, thanks to my saintly mother. 

It is quite natural for my thoughts to 
wander in this manner, for my whole life 
is spent in wandering from place to place. 
One day we play one town, the next an- 
other, provided it isn't too far distant 
and train connections can be made in 
time. The theatre, the sleeping car and 



106 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

the middle-class hotels — these are my 
home. 

From your seat in the audience, you, 
Joy, have listened rapturously to the in- 
toxicating strains of the orchestra, have 
been dazzled by the glittering illumina- 
tion, the artistic scenery, the modern stage 
in all its splendor, where you have wit- 
nessed the finished performance of an 
opera, drama, comedy or vaudeville enter- 
tainment, and you have gone home 
tempted to go yourself into this wonder- 
land. Did it ever occur to you that prob- 
ably every single person who ever entered 
a theatre was at some time or other sim- 
ilarly tempted? Who has not said in his 
heart: " I, too, want to go on the stage? " 

Fortunately this business of being stage- 
struck does not strike deeply into the 
hearts of many. With most of us the de- 
sire is transient and easily forgotten. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 107 

That greatest of all playwrights knew 
what he was talking about when he said 
" all the world's a stage," and luckily most 
of us puppets are content to perform our 
parts upon the great wide stage of life, 
leaving the artificial stage for those few 
to whom to act is to live. 

In this, as in all other professions, many 
persons profess what they can never hope 
to attain. Actors there are a-plenty, who 
cannot act the least wee mite. Thousands 
of these half-failures tread the boards, 
earning barely enough to keep body and 
soul together. Many of the wiser ones 
drift, broken in spirit, into the cobblers, 
barbers, clerks, and shopkeepers they were 
originally meant to be, while others go on 
and on, vainly deluded and ever hopeful 
that some bright day their destiny may be 
made manifest to the critical, uncompro- 
mising world. 



108 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Many are lured by the glitter of the foot- 
lights who have no idea of what takes 
place behind the wings. Countless try it 
where one sticks, for the long, continuous 
rehearsal-performance, the uncertainty of 
engagements, the unpaid weeks of lay-off 
in summer, the small salary and the great 
demands upon it, soon discourage the 
majority. 

" I could wish, for my part," wrote 
Goethe, " that our theatre were as narrow 
as the wire of a rope-dancer, that no inept 
fellow might dare to venture on it, instead 
of being, as it is, a place where every one 
discovers in himself a capacity enough to 
flourish and parade." I am not calling you 
an " inept fellow," Honey, but the world 
is full of them. 

The stage is overcrowded, terribly so. 
Really fine actors for the leading roles 
abound, while understudies are as numer- 



The What-Shatl-I-Do Girl 109 

ous as the sands of the sea. There is al- 
ways room in the zenith for a new star, 
but, oh, of what brilliancy and perfection 
must it be! And, oh, how briefly does it 
shine after all its striving to let its light 
be seen! 

They are the ones who receive the thou- 
sand-dollars-a-night salaries you read 
about in magazine and publicity articles, 
while we poor fireflies are lucky to get our 
twenty-five or thirty a week, out of which 
we have to pay all of our living and travel- 
ling expenses, except railroad fares, and 
buy most of our costumes. Then, too, 
most of us are contracted for only a season 
of thirty-five weeks, you must realize. 
The rest of the time is a money-less " vaca- 
tion." 

Honey, I am not going to moralize. 
The stage has its temptations, as you al- 
ready must know, for they are kept con- 



110 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

stantly in the limelight. We actors have 
practically no home or social life, as even 
the best of us spend but a few weeks in 
one place. This may account a little for 
our falling into many of the pitfalls which 
surround us. But we don't have to fall 
into them. There are many noble, earnest, 
hard-working men and women in this 
highly respectable profession, and I would 
not hesitate for a second to recommend 
the life to a girl brought up with your 
strict principles. What's in a person will 
come out anywhere, though perhaps the 
stage will show it up a bit sooner than an 
unheard-of, secluded job, out of range of 
the public eye. 

Now to dissect you, Honey. Physically 
you're trig and pretty enough, young 
enough, and probably have as much en- 
durance as the rest of us. You might be- 
come a clever soubrette or a pony. Men- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 111 

tally you're bright enough. Your educa- 
tion will do. Morally (no one ought ever 
to vouch for another's morals, but I'd 
stake on your settling the stage-Johnnies' 
hash!) — the moral strength of any Kent 
speaks for itself. But, whoops, my dear! 
here's where the shoe pinches — you 
haven't the Thespian temperament. 

No, you haven't. Don't dispute me, 
Hon. Would you have written me an am- 
biguous letter, sighing that you hadn't a 
single talent and didn't know what you 
wanted to do, if you had really desired to 
go on the stage? No, indeed! The letter 
would have been all stage from the en- 
trance to the exit. You would have rattled 
on about your taken-for-granted, histri- 
onic ability in a most convincing way. 
The little feeble hint about your voice only 
assures me that you have never entertained 
serious thought of making anything of it. 



112 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Any girl can sing, dear child, unless she's 
a monotone, and there aren't many of 
them, more's the pity! 

I thought I could once. I joined a 
chorus, a third-rater, in a third-rate mu- 
sical comedy, and tried to learn to kick 
over my head. I strained my poor little 
voice to the bursting point and contorted 
myself like a kangaroo; but I was no 
good. I can act a little; that's my line. 

Oh, those gum-chewing chorus girls ! I 
couldn't endure the thought of your get- 
ting among them. Their standard isn't 
quite so high as you've been used to. Such 
language! Such cheapness! Poor vulgar 
little things, most of them, and yet their 
hearts are big. I simply couldn't live the 
way they did. Many a lonely luncheon 
I had on just bananas during those dismal 
days. They were three for five in the city, 
and so filling! I used to crawl away under 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 113 

the straggly trees in the park and eat them 
all by myself. I roomed away from the 
rest of the girls, too, and they used to 
mock me with " Mamma's Angel Child/' 
" Old Prune," and other loving epithets. 
I suppose I was a prudish little prig, for it 
was my first experience on the stage and it 
was all so new and strange to me. If the 
nature-given, insatiable love of the art had 
not been deep rooted in my breast — a love 
which can never be cultivated by any num- 
ber of years of study and practice — I 
should have sickened and died right there 
in my flimsy ballet skirt. 

If you had not asked the advice of a 
dozen others engaged in different lines of 
work, but had written that you were deter- 
mined to sink or swim, live or die 7 survive 
or perish, on the stage, I should have held 
up my hands from the depths and cried: 
"Come on in, Honey! The water's cold, 



114 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

but, my, it's bracing! Don't be afraid to 
dive head-first. I'll help you keep afloat 
until you have learned how to strike out 
for yourself." 

If you loved the stage as I do, you would 
find your heart's content and marvellous 
satisfaction in the little applause and lit- 
tler fame which you might receive, while 
in the far distant future there would be 
always the possibility of the shimmering 
firefly ascending so high in the heavens 
that it finally loomed up into a translucent 
star. 

I should have told you of my experience 
at a dramatic school, where all that I 
learned had to be untaught w T hen I began 
to tread the boards for hard cash. 

I should have written you a treatise on 
the art of interviewing managers, what to 
expect and what to say, where to go to 
find them and how to get at them when 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 115 

once they are located, for managers are 
as elusive as fleas. 

Even might I have gone so far as to 
have found you a part, consisting of a 
cap and apron and " Tea is served, 
Madame !" 

But, Honey, I feel way down deep in 
my too calloused organ that men call a 
heart that you have a different part to 
act. Your hero will be yours behind the 
scenes as well as in front of the audience. 
Your kisses will be real kisses. Your 
spoken words of love will be answered 
by more than the mere clapping of hands. 
I envy you. I would change places with 
you in a moment, if I could. 

As a child I could mimic anybody. 
Every one said I had talent. It was my 
undoing, though perhaps I should have 
been undone, anyway, if no one had ever 
made so foolish a remark. Among us 



116 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

girls, I was always the queen of amateur 
theatricals. You did many things in 
school better than I, but you must con- 
cede that, in this, I excelled you. And 
yet, what am I now? — a poor little no- 
body who has arrived nowhere and must 
still keep on! O Honey, is it worth it? 

I am crying again, so that my writing 
blurs. Excuse a great baby who is a little 
homesick for the happy old times. 

Oh, what's the use of troubling you! 
I'm just a bit sentimental, I guess, and had 
better hustle and get ready for rehearsal. 

The next time you write I shall expect 
to hear that you have become a fixed star 
in the heart of your husband, so shoo 
away all thoughts of becoming a firefly, 
and consider the loving wisdom of 

Estelle. 




DOLLY HANDLES THE LOCKS OF DEPARTED 
CHINAMEN 



Room 23, Bailey Building, Belleville. 

Oh, there was a little girl, 

And she had a little curl, 
And it hung right down on her forehead. 

And when she was good 
She was very, very good — " 
117 



118 The What-Shatt-I-Do Girl 

We will stop right there, for she must 
be you, Joy, for you were very, very good 
to write to me, and I always picture you 
trying to blow high enough over your 
nose to chase away those little stray curls 
of yours. 

I hadn't the slightest idea as to what 
you or Betty or Anne, or any of the other 
dear old girls, might be doing; and had 
hoped, in a comfortable sort of way, that 
you were all married and living happily 
ever after. 

In the effort to win my way amid the 
rush and turmoil of the everyday working 
world I have lost sight of many of my 
schoolmates. It was indeed a pleasure 
to hear from you, and, although the clouds 
may seem to hang rather shadowy over 
you just at this time, you must not forget 
that old hope of the silver lining. 

Your letter reaches me on the eve of a 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 119 

great revolution — a revolution in my 
business. On this account everything is 
chaotic in my mind, but in spite of the 
fact I hasten to contribute my small share 
of advice. 

When you were a little girl did you love 
fairy tales? And do you recall that one 
of Grimm's, I think, where handsome 
Prince Charming rescues a beautiful 
Princess, confined in a high stone tower, 
by climbing up her golden hair? He 
used to steal under her window and chant 
something like this: 

" Lettice, Lettice, let down your hair, 
That I may climb without a stair." 

I believe the Princess was called Let- 
tice after some magnificent lettuce plants 
which grew in her garden. 

That story made a great impression on 
my infant mind, and I used to go up into 



120 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

our old garret and play I was the lovely 
Princess by hanging my head out of the 
window. You know what long yellow 
locks I had as a child. Well, no Prince 
Charming came along, but one day my 
father came home earlier than usual and 
spied me. He said he didn't see anything 
charming about it, but that I had scared 
him almost to death. He stopped the fairy 
game and took away my first delightful 
romance. But the mischief was done. 
From that moment I began to admire my 
hair and loved to handle it. I became 
enormously proud of it. My future ca- 
reer was decided right then and there, 
I believe, if I may be said to have a 
career. 

You don't know what I do, either, I'll 
wager. Well, it's a hair-raising occupa- 
tion! I wonder if you would have consid- 
ered it worth your while to hunt me up 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 121 

if you had known. I believe you would. 
Being a sensible girl, you would not shun 
to investigate, at least, a mode of liveli- 
hood which is seized upon so eagerly by 
thousands of working girls to-day. 

Truth will out — the dreadful truth. 
Joy, I am the beloved of beautiful women 
and some few, would-be beautiful men, 
mostly of the dandy breed. I'm a doctor 
of beauty. I take care of the beautiful 
hair, beautiful hands and beautiful feet of 
beautiful women who take beautiful care 
of their beautiful selves. You may shud- 
der at the feet! I did at first. Let me tell 
you that beautiful feet are not to be 
scorned, and that they need more care by 
far than the face and hands which are ex- 
posed to the sunlight and air and so better 
able to take care of themselves. 

I am a shampooer, a dresser of hair, a 
manicurist, a chiropodist, a masseuse, 



122 The What-Skall-I-Do Girl 

child's barber; in fact, all kinds of a 
beauty specialist, to a certain extent. 

Beyond that certain extent I do not go, 
which makes the difference between me 
and a regular beauty specialist of the or- 
dinary sort. I take care of natural beauty 
and let it go at that. I do not try to im- 
prove on nature. I absolutely refuse to 
ruin the complexions of ignorant people 
who are only too eager to be cast in a 
poisonous mold in the vain attempt to get 
rid of their facial blemishes. 

I cleanse those parts of the body which 
many women cannot do well themselves, 
or think they can't. By legitimate mas- 
sage I invigorate their torpid skins and 
scalps and keep them in good condition. 

One thing I do which I hate to confess, 
but I'd have to go out of business if I 
stopped it. I dye and bleach hair. When 
women are silly enough to change the 



The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 123 

natural color of their hair to a tawny 
auburn, pseudo chestnut or a glaring per- 
oxide tint, I always warn those who have 
never done it before of the consequences, 
as tactfully as truth will permit, telling 
them how it will have to be done over and 
over again as fast as it grows out and 
what it does to the life of the hair. It 
eases my conscience, though I do not lose 
much business by the audacity, for they 
will have it, especially such people as come 
to the down-town beauty parlors of a 
large city, which is where I learned the 
trade. 

All women despise the streaked age. It 
betrays their fleeting youth, and they for- 
get all about the fact that it heralds their 
stately matronhood. A very few, brief 
years, and all the unnatural coloring will 
look ridiculous. The gloss which ought 
to shine from their silvery white tresses 



124 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

will all be gone. It will be a mercy if they 
don't have to wear a wig. Yet they will 
dye as long as they live, some of them. 

Among my clients (I don't like to call 
them patients), who are of a higher order 
of women, this habit is going out of 
fashion. Refinement abhors the artificial. 
It is the cheaper class of get-rich-quick 
ladies, who say " you was," shop girls, 
and the like, who scandalize nature with 
their rolls (vulgarly called rats), puffs, 
little curls, false foundations, chignons, 
psyches, and switches galore. 

You may be thinking that hairdressers 
themselves are the worst offenders. Many 
of them are, with their outlandish, ultra- 
fuzzy heads. But there is some excuse for 
them, poor things. They do it to attract 
business. I am thankful I do not have to 
work with that class any more. 

Of course there are exceptions. A few 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 125 

people have so little hair of their own that 
they are ashamed of it and try to help it 
out with a litttle mixture of hemp and the 
locks of some departed (maybe a China- 
man). In this way they're apt to lose 
what little they already have, which might 
be coaxed into some semblance of decency 
by the simple process of dressing it dif- 
ferently. 

When I tackle a helpless listener like 
you I always begin to theorize, but it 
makes me so furious to see beautiful nat- 
ural hair ruined by unbeautiful false hair 
that I want to impress the wickedness of 
it upon any one who asks me about my 
work. 

I don't regard my business lightly. It's 
my sustenance, my means of existence, the 
way I spend hours and weeks and years. 
I am after the best and most lasting re- 
sults. There are plenty of shams in this 



126 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

same trade, who don't care whether they 
spoil a pretty face, kill a mass of healthy 
raven locks, or make it necessary for a toe 
to be chopped off. I do. I do unto others 
as I would that they should do unto me 
in this rather ticklish occupation. And I 
succeed, gradually, to be sure, but per- 
ceptibly. 

I love the human hair. It offers a study 
far more complicated and absorbing than 
you might think. The other branches, the 
manicuring, chiropody and massage, ap- 
peal to me only as necessities which need 
to be well attended to. 

My first two years of preparation were 
spent in a beauty parlor in a city, as I have 
said. It seemed very exhausting, back- 
breaking work for some months. Jump- 
ing from one customer to another, now a 
shampoo, now a manicure, from early 
morning until half-past five in the after- 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 127 

noon, we girls were kept unmercifully at 
it. 

Sometimes we did not have time to take 
our usual forty minutes for lunch. Often 
an orange or a sandwich, hastily gobbled 
in a little back corner, had to suffice until 
the noontime rush was over. Lots of 
days I had to wait until three o'clock for 
a bite to eat, although my breakfast had 
been at seven and I had been hustling 
every minute since. 

Once in a while there were slack days, 
when terrible storms kept the shoppers at 
home (and they had to be quite terrible 
ones, too). Did we slack up? Never! 
Then it was we went over the stock, comb- 
ing out the cases full of false hair which 
had become a trifle mussed in the han- 
dling. 

The woman in charge of us girls was a 
regular slave driver. She taught us all 



128 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

very clearly what the word " boss " meant. 
The girls hated and feared her. She dis- 
charged us for almost nothing. If she 
caught two of us talking together in low 
tones, she assumed it was against her and 
fired us on the first provocation. My, the 
girls who came and went during the time 
I was there ! 

Poor porters on Pullmans — I know 
how they suffer, for it was taken for 
granted that we received lots of tips and 
our salaries were cut accordingly. Some 
of the girls had a faculty for getting tips. 
I had a dreadful time to bring myself to 
it. Foolish as it may seem, I never could 
accept tips from the occasional men who 
came in to be dolled up, and who always, 
disinterestedly or otherwise, waived away 
their change. Women aren't so generous, 
especially the transients. 

As soon as I felt myself competent, 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 129 

and had saved up enough to buy a set of 
the necessary little instruments, clippers, 
buffers, etc., I began to solicit a little 
patronage of my own. I had a neat busi- 
ness card printed, which I distributed 
among all the fine ladies of my acquaint- 
ance. This brought in a few orders, 
which I filled evenings, still keeping my 
position in the city. It was too hard that 
way. I knew I couldn't stand it long. 

Summer came. One of my patrons, the 
most paying one I had because she al- 
ways had the whole family done, was go- 
ing to the beach. She suggested that I 
go to the same resort and take a room in 
a cottage near her hotel, offering to rec- 
ommend me to several of her friends who 
were also going and to other guests as 
soon as she knew them well enough. 

That was the beginning of my business. 
The summer was so successful that T kept 



130 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

quite a list of the same clients, who didn't 
live too far away, right along after I re- 
turned to the city, and soon had all I 
could attend to. 

There was one great trouble with this 
arrangement; and it was a big one to me. 
Those wealthy women of leisure did not 
keep their appointments. If any trivial 
thing arose to alter their plans, they 
would call me up on the telephone, maybe 
an hour or two before I was to start out, 
and say sweetly: "Would you mind not 
coming this afternoon? I have such a 
headache !" or "I forgot all about that 
bridge party," or " I've decided to wait 
until to-morrow. To-morrow would be 
just as convenient, would it not?" It 
would not! But I couldn't argue it over 
the telephone. I had to acquiesce; it was 
business. My time was lost. I was so 
much out. It was too late to make any 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 131 

engagement for that particular afternoon 
or evening, and to-morrow was already 
filled by other people whom I could not 
put off, no matter how often they did it to 
me. The hole in the profits caused by 
this laxitude was so tremendous that it 
made my pocketbook mighty uncertain. 

That is why I am hoping to open up a 
little beauty parlor of my own, where I 
can serve as many as graciously come to 
me. I have engaged a room in one of 
the best equipped buildings in Belleville, 
where the majority of my clients live. I 
am, in fact, writing you at one of my mani- 
cure tables in that very room, which I 
expect to have all settled and ready for 
business by the first of next week. I wish 
you were here to help me arrange it. 

If you think you would like to follow 
in the steps of the fairy Princess with the 
golden hair, I'll be happy to take you in. 



132 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I intended to engage a girl, later on, if 
the business picked up, and would infi- 
nitely prefer to initiate a green one rather 
than have to keep my eye on one who did 
everything the wrong way. 

It is a beautiful business and can be 
made to pay, if you go into it with the 
same determination to work that you 
would have to if you were a nurse or a 
doctor. Lots of inferior girls take up 
manicuring because they think it is easy, 
caring little whether they do well or not 
as long as they are sure of their money on 
Saturday night. They haven't helped the 
reputation of the trade any, but they have 
hurt themselves and many promising, 
high-class workers, who exist in this, as 
in all other lines of work. 

You needn't hesitate about starting in. 
It will not belittle you in the slightest, and 
if you like to play Fairy Godmother and 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 133 

make folks beautiful as well as I do, some 
day you may be prosperous enough to 
open a little parlor of your own. 

You would be just the girl for me, too, 
the more I think of it, on account of your 
dainty, polished, refined personality, if 
you will come. Will you ? 

In the midst of my heaps of unsettled 
furniture, which has just been moved in 
to-day, I remain, 

Expectantly yours, 

Dolly. 

P. S. Joy, I want to help you if I can. 
And I can be of more help to you, just 
now, than you can to me, if you will do 
what I advise. Marry, Joy, marry; and 
then come to me to get scalped! Love is 
the greatest beautifier in the world. Don't 
let it escape you, my Princess. The stone 
tower of work is very strong and high. 



134 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Let down your hair to your beloved Prince 
Charming before you are so old you need 
a wig, and make at least one fairy tale 
come true. 




WINIFRED CAN'T REMEMBER WHEN SHE 

FIRST DROVE THE NEIGHBORS CRAZY 

WITH " CHOPSTICKS " 

Studio, Sunday Afternoon. 
Dear Kenty: 

Blessed be Sunday! It's the only day 
I have a minute to do anything in. All 
my calls, letters, negligee ribbons, wary 
buttons, glove mending, yes, and even 
darning — Sunday ! 

135 



136 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I have been thinking of you constantly 
ever since you asked me to, and I truly 
want to say something comforting. At 
present, after a week's dissipation in 
music, I've got a big head. All my mind 
will hold is tum-tum-tum, one-two-three, 
accent on the first beat, now try it over 
once more! The last phrase I've strug- 
gled to drum into a child's brain always 
sings in my brain until a new struggle 
comes along. It makes one almost maud- 
lin to have five-finger exercises and scales 
running rife with one's faculties. Walk- 
ing or talking or eating soup, it must be 
to rhythm. I can't even bat a tennis ball 
until the beat comes round! All last 
night my astral body was performing the 
most grotesque acrobatic stunts to synco- 
pation (" sink-your-patience," one of my 
young hopefuls called it yesterday at 
his lesson). Truly, the only way to 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 137 

get rid of one air is to begin on an- 
other. 

You are not the only one to whom 
changes have come. I was obliged to go 
out into what you are pleased to desig- 
nate as " the wonderful world " almost as 
soon as we moved away from Maywood. 
Dad's business went back on him and he 
was forced to go into bankruptcy. He 
has never recovered. Before the crash 
came we all knew he was doomed, and 
that was the real reason for our leaving 
the old town where everybody had known 
dad from a boy. He couldn't bear their 
pity. 

To make a long story short, as they say 
when they intend to bore you with the 
whole of it, we came here to live with little 
or nothing except blue blood and ances- 
tors, which do not count at all when the 
rent comes due. I shudder to recall the 



138 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

wan look on mamma's face and the help- 
less twitching of poor dad's hands as we 
three sat night after night in our little 
family circle discussing dollars and cents, 
principally cents. 

Early each morning dad would start out 
hopefully in search of some kind of em- 
ployment, only to come home at supper 
time, crushed, dejected and silent. In the 
evenings he pored over the want ads. 
But who wants to hire a man over fifty- 
eight — a has-been — a failure? His case 
was more pitiful than you or I will ever 
know, unless we too seek work at his age. 

As soon as we had had a chance to get 
settled we took two school teachers to 
board, and, after a while, a miserable little 
clerkship turned up for dad, which he 
gladly accepted; my dad, who had often 
had ten men working for him in the pros- 
perous past! 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 139 

Be patient, Kenty dear, I'm coming to 
it, for I know you want to hear about work 
and success and not about family ups and 
downs. I always have to begin at the be- 
ginning, and " festina lente," as our class 
motto directed. No one ever followed it 
more closely than I. 

I suppose every girl has to ask herself 
the same questions which you put forth 
in your letter to me, at least, every girl 
who has her own way to make: What 
am I good for? What do I know? What 
can I do to earn my living? 

For me there has always been only one 
answer — music. Not vocal, thank good- 
ness, or it might have been even harder 
than it was; but piano. I really cannot 
remember when I first began to drive 
the neighbors crazy with " Chopsticks." 
Mamma taught me when I was a very 
small girl, and after I entered grammar 



140 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

school I took of Miss Bangsky. You 
studied with her, too, didn't you? When 
I left her I was a fairly accurate, all-round 
player, and could read almost anything at 
sight. You remember my place was al- 
ways at the piano at all of our little social 
affairs. 

When any one used to say to me as a 
child: " What are you going to be when 
you grow up, little girl?" I used always 
to reply: "I'm going to be like Miss 
Bangsky and give recitals in the town 
hall." I thought then that all you had to 
do was to be sweet-voiced and smiley and 
wear sparkling rings on your pretty hands 
and a plumey hat and know how to count 
" one and two and," the way she did. I 
never doubted that all piano teachers were 
rich and had more pupils than they could 
well take care of. 

So when the necessary time came for 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 141 

me to hustle I knew exactly what I must 
do. Music was my forte. I would teach. 
But whom? That was the sticker. Where 
were my pupils to come from? I didn't 
know a soul in the town! 

While dad was out hunting for his job, 
I also went upon the highway seeking 
what pupils I might devour. Instead of 
pupils, however, I found lots of other 
ravenous music teachers. Every town has 
quantities of them, just like doctors and 
lawyers. 

There was one prosperous looking 
studio, in the very building in which I 
now am, in fact, to which I hied me to see 
if an assistant were needed. The teacher 
was giving a lesson when I arrived, and, 
mercy, what untold agonies I suffered 
listening to the horrible way she went 
about it. Such excruciating discords as 
reached my ears ! And would you believe 



142 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

it ? — she actually lauded that little upstart 
murderer of one of Czerny's finest studies! 
I had been taught better than that. I 
could teach better than that. I knew that 
much before I ever began, and it gave me 
confidence. I wondered how she ever 
held her many pupils and was able to 
maintain so elaborate a studio if she al- 
ways practised such methods. 

Kenty, I have found out that secret of 
hers. It maddens me to write it, but I 
believe a great many piano teachers do 
the very same thing. A child is sent in 
for instruction, without any music in his 
makeup, one who could never under any 
circumstances become any kind of a 
pianist. She is expected to teach him and 
does the best she can, flattering him and 
his doting parent (usually his mother) 
along with his progress, which in nine 
cases out of ten he never makes with his 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 143 

crude, careless, slide-over playing. And 
the mother's vanity is pleased. She would 
balk at the truth. Praise is what she is 
paying for — the praise of her offspring, 
deserved or undeserved, it doesn't matter. 
The child doesn't care. Why should he? 
Whatever he has done has always been 
bragged about before him. He's used to 
false credit. If his teacher doesn't pat him 
on the back and wheedle him along he'll 
tell his mother she's cross and another 
will be engaged. Can you blame the poor 
woman who must keep her pupils or go 
out of business for doing what is expected 
of her, even though she knows she is in- 
creasing the world's vast army of tortur- 
ous tink-a-tinks? 

I have noticed this to be true, especially 
among the upper classes who pay well for 
lessons. Of course every normal child 
does learn something; he can't help it 



144 The What-Skall-I-Do Girl 

when his teacher takes so much pains. 
But when a wealthy child makes real prog- 
ress and turns into a good musician, it is 
either through a natural love of, and ear 
for, music, or because he has a rare parent 
— one who has the real interest of the 
child at heart, and not her own colossal 
vanity; one who is not deceived, when 
her small boy stumbles through his piece 
at a recital, by the " How beautifully Al- 
gernon did " of the smirking mammas be- 
side her. 

I remember that once, only once, a real 
father (the kind you dream about for your 
own children) came to me with great con- 
cern about his boy and girl who had just 
started in with me the week before. 
" Miss Holiday," he began, " if either of 
my children have it in them to become 
good players, mind you, I don't say ex- 
pert, but average intelligent performers 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 145 

of refined home music, I shall be happy to 
have them continue under your care as 
long as they are in school. But if you find 
that their efforts are unnatural and forced, 
that it simply isn't in them, that they don't 
care whether they get ahead or not, why, 
I'm not going to put all my evenings in 
jeopardy by having to hear them bang 
ragtime and the stuff that most young 
folks play nowadays. I'd rather give you 
right now the price of their lessons than 
have them begin. 

" Of course I'm not going to be so self- 
ish as to ruin any real talent. I'm per- 
fectly willing to put up the money if it's 
worth it ; but I'd rather put it to some bet- 
ter use if it isn't. Those children have 
taken lessons all their lives, since they 
were nine," he continued. " It's torture 
to listen to Sylvia, at least for me, though 
I may lack the musical instinct, you know, 



146 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

while Arthur — well, Arthur's pieces 
sound a little better, though I never heard 
him play one all through. 

" Please give them each a fair trial and 
then report to me, at my office. We won't 
say anything about the matter to Mrs. 
Jones, that is, not at present. She might 
not understand. You know mothers — I 
suppose they're all alike. They always 
think their boys and girls are virtuosos in 
disguise. Now, Mrs. Jones has as much 
as told me that she considers Arthur a 
second Beethoven, because he can make 
up, what is it you call it — improvise, 
foolish little tunes with one finger. Later 
on my wife wants Sylvia to enter that 
great institution in the city where they 
turn out squads of ready-made, human 
pianolas; and she shall go, too, if it's in 
her. Between you and me, I don't think . 
it is. In my opinion she'd punch the type- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 147 

writer with enough sight more expres- 
sion!" 

You may wonder at this long recital, 
hut it has its place. That man is the only 
father I ever met who took any interest in 
the musical education of his family, out- 
side of providing the money for their les- 
sons. And he was so fair and square 
about it that his story ought to be her- 
alded all over the world as a model for 
parents. 

The children? Well, Mrs. Jones was 
right about Arthur. He was an infant 
prodigy. All he needed was some one to 
keep his nose to the technical grindstone. 
Mr. Jones was also right, for Sylvia ham- 
mered the keys as if she were driving nails 
through knotty wood. Her lessons were 
soon stopped to the chagrin of her mother 
and her own delight. For a whole year 
I received double payment for the boy's 



148 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

lessons. Twice I sent the checks back, 
but they were returned with the words 
" I knew I could rely on you," so what 
could I do? I took extra pains with 
Arthur to even up. He is now my star 
pupil and will soon have to leave me for 
a more advanced teacher. 

Patience, Kenty! 

Let me see — I was sitting in that 
studio, wasn't I? Well, she thought she 
didn't require an assistant just then, but 
she might later. She taught all systems, 
letting each pupil who had taken lessons 
before go on in his own sweet way, 
whether it was an approved, up-to-date 
method or not. The method she used for 
beginners was an old-fashioned one. She 
hated beginners. Come to think of it, she 
guessed she would let me help her a little 
with a class of five, all of them under ten, 
who had just commenced. She charged 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 149 

fifty cents an hour for these, and would 
allow me thirty-five. I was to come to the 
studio on Fridays, after school. Perhaps 
she might turn some extra pupils my way 
if she had more than she could attend to 
later on and I suited her. She was very 
kind and generous, I thought. 

I went home rejoicing. Five pupils the 
very first day! The two school teacher 
boarders were in the living room when I 
was telling the folks about it that night. 
And, Kenty, those two dear girls told their 
classes about me and were the means of 
adding four more pupils a week to my 
tiny income. I charged seventy-five cents 
an hour for private lessons, just as the 
studio teacher did, though dad always had 
to pay a dollar for me in Maywood. 

The next step was a neat little an- 
nouncement in the town paper, so as to 
look business-like. Then I offered to 



150 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

teach the four big girls for fifty cents 
apiece if they would each bring in a new 
pupil from among their schoolmates. 
Three of them did it. 

As we have a piano with a beautiful 
tone, I saw no reason why my pupils 
shouldn't come to me, instead of my 
wasting time and fares by going to them. 
Our house is fairly central, and I really 
think the lesson turns out better if there 
are none of the child's family in the next 
room listening to mistakes. Little Marion 
Greenough, one of my most promising 
players, twisted around on the stool one 
day and confided to me: "I'm not nerv- 
ous here, am I? I like to come to your 
house." 

" Why, Marion? I am glad you do," I 
replied. " Are you ever nervous, a little 
girl like you? " 

"Well," declared the child, "mamma 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 151 

says I am. She always used to sit in the 
parlor when Professor Balch came to 
give me my lesson, and say : ' Poor little 
Marion, she can't help making more or 
less blunders. It's harder for her than 
for other children. She's so nervous! 
You must excuse her, Professor, I never 
saw such a nervous child in my life! ' 

So I began by having them come to me, 
the seven private pupils. Of course I had 
to go to the studio for the little class, but 
it wasn't very far and I always walked. 

The only expense I had was that adver- 
tisement, which for a long time I put in 
the classified column as it was so much 
cheaper, only twenty-five cents for three 
times. 

As soon as my own work made it feasi- 
ble I gave up assisting at the studio at cut 
rates, but that teacher found my begin- 
ners so much easier to go on with than her 



152 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

own that she voluntarily turned over each 
fresh crop for the first two terms at full 
price, retaining the pupils at the end of 
the second term. But this didn't work for 
her, for the little rascals wanted to stay 
with me, so that, although we both had 
entered into that agreement in good faith, 
she lost all her new pupils that year. I 
didn't know what to do and offered all 
sorts of compromises, none of which she 
would accept, however. 

Then the wonderful and unexpected 
happened. She came to see me one day, 
while I was puzzling and puzzling over 
the situation, and smiled as she said, with 
all the frankness in the world: " My lady, 
you're a better business woman and a bet- 
ter teacher than I am. You have most 
of my pupils, now won't you please take 
the studio? I should feel relieved, as the 
contract isn't up until next December. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 153 

After that you can stay there or not, as 
you choose, but wouldn't it be better to 
keep the business where it has always 
been?" 

" W-w-why, why are you doing this ? " 
I stammered. 

" Just sick of it, and going to marry 
Professor Balch," she blushed, explaining 
that he didn't want her pupils anyway, as 
he already was overburdened with higher 
priced ones. 

So here I am to-day, nicely established, 
though I've gone all around Jack Robin- 
son's barn to tell you so. I lay my success 
partially to great luck, but primarily to 
my painstaking way of making the child 
take pains; and to my telling the parent 
about the possibilities, as I see them, in 
the child, thus inspiring confidence, and 
retaining only such as have some material 
to work with in themselves. Where I 



154 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

sacrifice on one I make up with another. 
Don't think I take only prodigies ; no in- 
deed! But I won't take pay for work 
which I know is all thrown away, at least, 
not unless the parent understands the true 
state of affairs and still insists. Nor do I 
give a recital that I am ashamed of. Chil- 
dren do not have to play at my recitals — 
they want to. There is nothing compul- 
sory about it. It's an honor to be attained 
only by excellent every-day work. There- 
fore, when I give one it is a success. 

I still practise myself. If I didn't some 
of the more advanced pupils would soon 
leave me way behind in technique. Need- 
less to say, I don't teach trashy, meretri- 
cious music, nor do I permit a beginner to 
execute an old master just because her 
mother is fond of such and such a selec- 
tion. 

You are doubtless saying to yourself, 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 155 

" Of course not ! Nobody would do such 
foolish things." But they do, Kenty, lots 
of them. They spoil many a lazy boy and 
girl by letting them glide over the sticky 
places with something which, to the un- 
practised ear, may sound just as well. 
Don't you remember how furious Miss 
Bangsky used to get when we played by 
ear? 

I am coming to you, now, Kenty. I 
hope you will leave vocal alone, unless, 
well, unless you have improved a very 
great deal since the time we all used to 
screech in the Glee Club. Not that you 
didn't warble like a bird; you did. But 
it takes a marvellous warble to catch fat 
worms! 

My experience tells me to tell you that 
if you love music beyond anything to go 
ahead and teach it. I am comfortably 
situated and really doing more than I 



156 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

should, so why don't you come to live 
with us? There would be plenty of room, 
for we don't have to take boarders now, 
and I should just love your company. I 
was always dying to have a sister, so 
come on, little Kenty. 

You studied the same method which I 
now teach, and if you're a trifle out of 
practise you can make it up. You could 
help me somewhat, and then by degrees 
work up some pupils of your own there in 
Maywood for one day a week, maybe, and, 
oh, I'll help collect them. 

If, however, you're grown away from 
the piano and don't care about it the way 
you used to, I would rather see you do al- 
most anything else than try to get and 
keep pupils. 

Think it over and consult our old 
teacher if she is still extant, which of 
course, you can't do if she isn't. You will 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 157 

need stacks of patience, a head like a 
sponge so that you can absorb and 
squeeze out the sound, and a system 
of nerve-cells strong enough to run a 
biplane. 

Far be it from me to induce you to start 
out on any wild goose chase which would 
be only a waste of time. You have studied 
music. You ought to be in the best posi- 
tion to judge of your own inclination and 
ability. If you're not so terribly advanced 
yourself, never mind. You've been all 
through theory and harmony, and the trick 
is not to perform perfectly yourself but to 
be able to show some one else how to do 
so. 

You are mighty fortunate to have 
grown up with some musical education, 
and to have had so good a teacher as ours 
was. Just think how much money and 
how long a time it would take to prepare 



158 The Wkat-Shall-I-Do Girl 

a girl, who had never studied, to be any 
kind of a teacher of music, if she suddenly 
decided after leaving school that that was 
her vocation. Lots of girls, brought up 
as you and I were, never put their musical 
advantages to any use, beyond accom- 
panying themselves at home. 

And there's another thing which I 
nearly forgot — accompanying. Have you 
ever done any for entertainments? I put 
a line about it in my advertisement, but 
don't get very much of it. Occasionally 
an evening brings in three or five dollars, 
but I am more often asked to do it for 
love. 

I have spent so much of my Sunday 
writing to you that no ribbons get run in 
to-day, and not a single button gets an- 
nexed. It is 'most time for the girls to 
drop in for a cup of tea, as they often do, 
especially now that the folks are away on 



The What-Skall-I-Do Girl 159 

a little holiday trip and I'm practically 
living in the studio. I wish you could take 
a peek in here. It's like a dream that lasts 
after you wake up. You must come to 
visit, anyway, whether or not you join the 
metronome existence and learn to live by 
rote. 

Kenty, I am older than you, and noth- 
ing like a love affair has ever had time to 
creep in between my lessons. But, if I 
were you, T should be tempted to let T. S. 
seize the staff and seek out the notes, while 
I played only the rests. A solo is all right, 
I've played it; but it can't compare to a 
duet when the heart strings are in perfect 
tune. 

Those women who know, the mothers 
of the world, tell us that there is no music 
like the first cry of a baby voice, the 
dominant chord in any musical life, which 
subdues even the finest symphonies of the 






160 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

grand old composers into the faintest ac- 
companiments. 

Having worked up to this terrific cres- 
cendo, I will now ritard, still being 

Yours as in the happy, sing-song days, 
Winifred Stone Haliday. 




JANE HAS DEADOODLES OF PATIENTS 

Out on a case in Milton, Mass. 
My Poor Dear Child: 

It's nearly midnight, and I am writing 
you by the dim flickerings of a gas-jet 
turned way down, brightened by pale 
flashes of moonlight streaming in at the 
window. 

161 



162 The Wkat-Shall-I-Do Girl 

My patient is asleep, at last. Oh, I am 
so thankful, for it will mean the saving of 
him. Pneumonia, my dear, and an ob- 
stinate, treacherous case. 

I am not the regular nurse. She, plucky 
little thing, stood at her post four days 
and three nights running, before I was 
called to relieve her. 

I was just putting on my hat to go to 
the theatre with my sister this evening — 
and the tickets were a Christmas present, 
too — when the call came. The play will 
be gone when I get off this case — just my 
luck! But never mind, it's all a part of 
being a nurse. 

You ought to have seen this family 
when I arrived. It just happened that the 
crisis passed and a turn for the better set 
in after I had been on duty half an hour. 
Coincident, of course, but they all seem 
to connect me with it, somehow or other. 



The What-SIwU-I-Do Girl 163 

A few hours ago I went in to ask the 
regular nurse a question about some medi- 
cine, just as she was undressing to crawl 
into bed after her long vigil. She put her 
exhausted little head on my shoulder and 
actually wept because I had come — that 
alone made up for a dozen performances. 
If this case is as successful as it now bids 
fair to be, the credit will all belong to her 
brave fight — hers and, of course and al- 
ways, the doctor's. 

One of my eyes is glued to the bed and 
the other is vainly trying to follow the 
faint traceries of my fountain pen. But 
my heart is all with you to-night. Were 
you here, I should put my arms around 
you and give you a mammoth hug, which 
would tell you many things I dare not 
after your instructions. 

My dear, if you want a life-work, nurs- 
ing is the most satisfying thing in the 



164 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

world. To relieve physical torture, to 
soothe mental suffering, to watch the joy- 
each little life ushered into being brings 
to its mother, to ease the path for those 
whose last hours are come — oh, there's 
nothing can compare with it ! What other 
greeting ever uttered stirs your heart like 
the trust and confidence conveyed in the 
" Oh, I'm so glad you've come " wel- 
come into the sick room? There is 
none. 

But this isn't advising you. Nor can I, 
dear child. I can merely suggest to you 
what has suited me. You must advise 
yourself. 

You've doubtless heard the expres- 
sion, " she's a born-nurse." I suppose 
some nurses are " born," just as there 
seem to be predestined painters, poets, 
and singers; but I believe the art of nurs- 
ing can be acquired by any one with the 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 165 

necessary physical strength and love for 
it. 

To succeed, you must love it. Liking, 
merely, won't do — there must be the sus- 
taining love of it. Ask yourself most care- 
fully about this, or you'll be a sorry fail- 
ure. A person might be a good book- 
keeper and yet hate his work; but heart 
and soul have to accompany uniform and 
cap. 

There isn't so much sacrifice to it as 
people seem to imagine, for the duties en- 
tail so-called sacrifice, which then becomes 
regular work. All work has its sacrifices. 
In ours, the compensation more than 
makes up, and I don't mean financial com- 
pensation either, though we get our share 
of that. You can't be lazy. You must 
have courage, heaps of it, and endurance. 

Don't let the supposed horrors of nurs- 
ing scare you out of it, if you really desire 



166 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

to enter the profession. They adjust 
themselves, and after a little while you'll 
find yourself discussing major " ops " with 
perfect equanimity. 

Well I remember, when I was a proba- 
tioner, hearing an old man in the charity 
ward beg for water all of one night. He 
had a perforated stomach, and I was just 
allowed to moisten his lips a little. He 
couldn't have even a swallow. He died in 
torment, and his pitiful groans haunted 
me for many a day. 

One of the first things a nurse learns is 
that there is no time to give way to her 
own feelings. The patient demands all 
her attention. Little by little the sight of 
a broken leg instigates her to help, rather 
than unnerves her with useless, hand- 
wringing sympathy. She doesn't grow 
hard. A true nurse is never callous to 
suffering, but she controls her emotions 






The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 167 

and does her work instead of being con- 
quered by false sympathy. 

Faint? You may at first — every one 
does. You'll get over it. There's nothing 
about nursing you can't stand, unless, per- 
haps, the night work. 

The first step for you to take is to go 
to your family physician and ask him if 
you are strong enough to become a nurse. 
I did. If he says for you not to think of 
such a thing, turn your thoughts towards 
some other kind of work. This is very im- 
portant, and may save you the waste of 
time and gruesomeness of having to begin 
all over again. If you have set your heart 
on it, and think your own doctor preju- 
diced, go to a strange physician for an un- 
biassed opinion. Then if you're told to go 
ahead, assured that you can stand it, you 
have every chance in the world to be an- 
other Florence Nightingale. 



168 The Wkat-Shall-I-Do Girl 

You must be trained. An untrained 
nurse has no place at all nowadays. 
There is everything in favor of the trained 
nurse. Even the standard of her salary 
is protected from the competition of the 
untrained by law in some of our states. 
She is never out of employment, except 
when she takes time off for rest, for the 
demand is greater than the supply. There 
aren't many kinds of business where a 
person may stop work whenever she 
wishes and then begin again at the same 
salary. After graduation a nurse doesn't 
have to worry about getting cases. Her 
hospital helps her. 

When you get to be a full-fledged nurse, 
your weekly stipend will be between 
twenty-one and twenty-five dollars, in- 
cluding all expenses. If you enjoy the 
institutional side of nursing, you may be- 
come a head nurse in your own hospital; 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 169 

or, perhaps, you may be executive enough 
to aspire to a matronship. At any rate, 
you'll be called to all the cases you'll wish 
to handle. I have had deadoodles of 
patients since I graduated. 

There are some hospitals whose alum- 
nae pension their graduates after they 
have passed in their checks for usefulness. 
Better inquire about this, wherever you 
apply. 

I took a three years' course in a small 
hospital, which I believe to be the best 
possible training school. Here the dozen 
or so nurses had to attend to every con- 
ceivable kind of human ailment, which 
gave us all kinds of experience. Then we 
were right under the nose of our matron 
all the time, and I doubt if the discipline 
could have been more severe. 

Some of our graduating class went im- 
mediately to a large city hospital for a 



170 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

post-graduate year to finish their training. 
I fully intend to go myself next year, but 
felt the need of earning some money to 
replenish my wardrobe first, and also 
wanted the rest afforded between cases, 
which will make it easier to take up the 
somewhat arduous routine life again. So 
for two years I've nursed and laid off and 
saved, and now am all ready to enter one 
of the biggest hospitals in New York next 
fall. I have never regretted one moment 
given to my training and shall feel quite 
complete after the post course. 

To go back to my first matron. We 
girls used to call her the ogress. (Now I 
realize what a wonder she was.) We 
would tremble at the pitter-patter of her 
rubber heels! 

I shall never forget one night about 
seven-thirty, when the telephone of the 
nurses* home rang and every day-nurse 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 171 

was summoned to the super's office. It 
had been a terribly trying day and I had 
just scrambled into bed as soon as I had 
swallowed my supper and was almost 
asleep. I had to hustle into my clothes 
and report with the rest. The charge was 
that an interne, whose life we all made 
miserable ever after, had discovered a 
burned match on one of the corridor 
floors! What villain had dropped it? Not 
I, luckily, but, nevertheless, I was taught 
what a dreadful calamity might have re- 
sulted from such carelessness. " The 
whole building might have caught fire, 
and the patients might not all have been 
moved. Whoever dropped that match 
would have been a murderess ! " she raved, 
anticlimaxing from manslaughter to the 
crimes of arson and criminal negligence. 
We all filed out, feeling the guilty things 
we weren't. The sequel was that never 



172 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

can I remember of such a thing occurring 
afterwards. 

Other equally bad things did, however. 
Once a probationer left a soiled spoon on 
one of the tables in the ward. Again we 
all appeared for the inquest, also after duty 
hours, when it was discovered. Every 
time any one did anything wrong, we all 
got the benefit of it. That's why our class 
all became star nurses — thanks to the 
ogress. 

Your home environment, good education 
and natural refinement will go a long way 
toward making you a successful nurse. 
The very first thing I was taught to do 
was house-work, cleaning, thorough bed- 
making, and the proper manner to set up 
a dainty tray. Then, of course, we all 
went to a cooking school. YouVe had 
experience in all these things, which were 
a handicap to me. Some of the proba- 



The What-Shall-l-Do Girl 173 

tioners are so slovenly and clumsy. 
You'd be a dabster. It means so much to 
have your patient's room immaculate, as 
well as his person. A sloppy tray is a 
crime in any hospital, and — would you 
believe it? — there isn't one girl out of ten 
who knows how to make plain toast that 
is appetizing! 

Our hospital paid six dollars a month 
the first year, eight dollars the second, 
and nine dollars the third. Each be- 
ginner was given the material for three 
uniforms, after which she had to provide 
her own. Perhaps you could make yours, 
which would save a dressmaker. I did. 
We each had to have a watch and rubber 
heels. I'm proud to tell you that I saved 
enough out of my salary to buy me a solid 
gold watch the first eighteen months. 
Before that I borrowed a broken one be- 
longing to the family and had it fixed up. 



174 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

It was unsightly and big as a turnip. My, 
wasn't it a relief to get the new one! 

All your other necessary expenses are 
paid: board, good food, though plain; 
warm room in the nurses' home, which is 
a sort of little club in a small hospital; 
and washing. Just a word about that 
washing — you'll need the strongest kind 
of underwear to stand the hospital wash, 
and better make it plain or you'll be for- 
ever mending. 

If you should enter a city hospital, I'm 
afraid you'd be a bit lonely — our girls 
were like one big family. Then, too, re- 
member you'd need more money for car- 
fares and extras, and earn barely enough 
for your boots and uniforms, aprons and 
bibs. 

You are old enough to enter as you're 
over twenty-one, the age usually required. 

It's now January, and none too early, 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 175 

if early enough, to register. You'd better 
inquire of two or three doctors about the 
best training school in your vicinity, and 
write for an application blank. Most 
classes enter in the fall, so you have plenty 
of time to repair your clothes and get 
ready, even though you do some other 
work in the meantime. 

Of course, different hospitals have dif- 
ferent requirements and length of courses. 
What I've told you has come mainly from 
my personal experience. 

The dawn is beginning to break. So is 
my wrist! That blessed man is still 
asleep, which means this case will be a 
short one for me. 

Hoping you may gather a faint idea 
from this tangled and incoherent laby- 
rinth, I thank you for helping me while 
away the long night. Most lovingly, 

Jane. 






176 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

P. S. For the gist of a woman's letter, 
look to the P. S. My dear, my patient is 
stirring — don't do it — marry Tad. I 
mean, don't be a nurse — not, don't marry 
Tad. 

J- 







PEGGY IS JUST A TIRED MACHINE 

Miss Joy Kent, Jan. 3. 

2$ Linden Road, Maywood, Mass. 

My Dear Joy: 

Your esteemed favor of the 1st instant 
received. Pardon this formal beginning 
of my letter, but when you've been esteem- 
ing favors for half a dozen years you'll see 
how easy it is to fall into the vernacular. 

177 



178 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

So you long to go to work. Somehow, 
I can't bear to think of your turning into 
a machine like me. And yet stenography 
is the easiest way. Also the quickest. 

Don't think for a moment of trying to 
earn your living by your voice. You'd 
starve to death! Not that I wish to dis- 
parage — but listen to what I went 
through. No, you never knew it, perhaps, 
but I spent seven, weary, discouraging 
months trying to get a sufficient number 
of music pupils together to pay for my 
voice lessons plus bread and butter, and, 
honestly, with all my conservatory train- 
ing, I couldn't land enough for either. It 
was a terrible blow to me when my 
" career " turned into a course in stenog- 
raphy. But, then, I had bread and butter 
and a little honey to fill my hungry soul. 

You sing well. So do hundreds of other 
girls. But it's only the rare geniuses who 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 179 

get by nowadays and turn their notes into 
the kind that will cash. Better give it up, 
Joy, as I had to, only do it now, before the 
heartache sets in. Oh, the time and money 
I've wasted in trying to become a prima 
donna because my well-meaning friends 
flattered me into thinking I had a voice! 
A girl with remarkable talent and a finan- 
cial backer might pull it off. Otherwise, 
she'd better make music her hobby and 
not her business. There, that's honest, 
and it wasn't easy to write, understand- 
ing how you will feel if you love it as 
I do. 

Stenography sounds prosaic beside the 
songbird's dream. But it's stable. For 
the time necessary to its preparation it 
pays better than anything else I know of 
for women. 

There's satisfaction in it too, not only 
in the neatly transcribed sheets, which say 



180 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

as plainly as possible, " You can rely ab- 
solutely on me; " but in realizing that you 
are a necessary factor in your employer's 
business. A trusted stenographer who 
sacredly guards the secrets of her office is 
an invaluable asset. And this is the first 
law of business for any girl in any office 
— to keep what she knows about her em- 
ployer's affairs to herself. Go into any 
middle-class restaurant at the noon hour 
and you will be amazed to hear the open 
betrayal of business faith gossiped from 
one group to another. But they get found 
out, and that's one reason why many stay 
down in the inferior positions. 

" I'm sick of being a sieve for another's 
brains," cried a girl in a large concern 
where there were eight typists. So she 
threw up her machine and started in to 
use her own brains. And then found she 
didn't have any, at least, she wasn't crea- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 181 

tive enough to exploit her " artistic tem- 
perament, " as she called it. After ten 
days she tried to get her job back, but it 
was filled. Which all means, let the 
geniuses soar if they can, but the stenog- 
rapher, with both feet on the first round 
of the ladder of success, had better climb 
slowly than step off into space. 

It's not all roses — office work — and 
many a night I go home too tired to do 
anything but crawl into bed. A long 
stretch at the typewriter always makes 
a horrible achey feeling in the back of my 
neck, and our poor little bookkeeper com- 
plains of chronic backache from sitting 
all day on a high stool. But think how a 
store girl has to stand, and a nurse and a 
teacher, too. All work produces its aches. 
I thought my eyes would pop right out 
of my head when I first began to study 
stenography, but after a little practice 



182 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

they got used to following the queer, 
shaded curlicues. 

(Had to take this letter out of the ma- 
chine as the head of the firm called me for 
dictation. Five carbon copies! If this 
sounds jerky, remember that it is written 
piecemeal.) 

Where was I — oh, yes, you want to 
know how to begin. If you haven't any 
special " bent " except music, I would cer- 
tainly advise you to take up stenography. 
First of all make up your mind that you 
are going to succeed — yes, you are, even 
in your most discouraged moments, while 
trying to master the miserable " hooks." 
Just look around you at the dummies who 
are thumping the keys and holding down 
their jobs. You can if they can, and you 
can't help it. 

Overcrowded? Not a bit of it. There 
are thousands of mediocre dictation-takers 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 183 

eking out a pitiful living, — which, even 
then, is usually more than they are worth 
— but there are plenty of vacancies wait- 
ing for high-class, common-sense, ac- 
curate, trustworthy girls, who are few 
and far between. 

A teacher in one of the leading business 
colleges in a certain city took a friend of 
mine over the school. At one open door, 
he paused and said : " See this whole room- 
ful of graduates? There are over fifty 
ready for positions next June." " But 
where do you place so many? " asked my 
friend. " That's easy enough," replied the 
teacher, " there are always more applica- 
tions than we can fill. The trouble is, that 
though all these are up in speed and the 
other school requirements, there aren't 
more than two in the whole lot who know 
enough to think! Just machines, nothing 



more." 



184 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Now, those fortunate two will probably 
become private secretaries, which means 
that their lives won't be all grind, for a 
private secretary does many things be- 
sides stenography, just as a social secre- 
tary does. I know one girl who is in a 
doctor's office. She doesn't have very 
much dictation, but has learned to assist 
in the examination of sputum, and does 
many similar things to save the doctor's 
busy time. Helen Smith, a girl who used 
to work in the same building with me, is 
now travelling all around the country with 
a woman writer. She went to Europe last 
summer. Think of it ! Then there's Ruth 
Snow of New York. She earns thirty dol- 
lars a week in a publishing house. The 
girls in government positions also receive 
good salaries after they've been at it a 
while. Of course, they have to pass civil 
service examinations. I know of one girl 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 185 

in the State House who makes twenty-five 
a week. So, you see, there are some really- 
truly plums hanging on the sugar tree, 
and there are more all ripe and wait- 
ing. 

There are two classes of stenographers: 
the kind who have to do letters over again 
and the kind who don't. And there are 
two ways of taking dictation: one is to 
let the matter run through you like a sieve 
(honestly, when I'm tired I can jot down 
thousands of words, without realizing or 
remembering a thing I am writing, and yet 
transcribe them all perfectly). The better 
way is to comprehend what you are about 
and take an interest in it. Then when 
your employer asks you about this or that, 
you will be able to refer to it immediately. 
The " machine " method may do for 
stereotyped work, but the " thinking 
machine " is the one to arrive. 



186 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

(Intermission for you and more dicta- 
tion for me.) 

It's all over — another legal brief. Law 
work is terribly exacting. I put in all my 
" dots " as I don't dare to risk guessing at 
them. Woe unto her who writes an " a " 
dot for a " the " dot, even when either 
makes perfect sense. And yet I am ad- 
vising you to become a stenographer! 

I've heard that no one is indispensable 
in business and that any one's place could 
be filled at a day's notice; but, though it 
may sound conceited, I don't think mine 
could. Why, if I stay out a single day 
they say they have a terrible time of it 
here in the office, and you ought to see 
what there is to straighten out when I 
come back. So I try never to be absent by 
taking every possible care of my health. 
It's so satisfying to be needed. 

Probably you've heard a lot about the 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 187 

big money court reporters make; they do, 
sometimes ten dollars a day. But they 
have to be as rapid as lightning, and it 
tells upon them in time, the strain. They 
don't last very long unless they're made 
of iron; at least, women don't. I know a 
man who's been at it for years and he's 
grown rich. 

Some public stenographers do mighty 
well by hiring a small office or desk room 
in some hotel or business building and 
working for transients. Often they get 
up quite a little clientage, as you might 
call it, and make fabulous sums. But it's 
too irregular for a beginner and requires 
an experienced, executive person for real 
success. 

Undoubtedly the best way to learn 
stenography and typewriting is to go to 
a reliable school, where the preparation is 
thorough and the class-work keeps away 



188 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

the discouragement of slow progress 
which often accompanies studying alone. 
Then there's the advantage of being able 
to say that you're a graduate of such and 
such a school, which helps you in getting 
a job. 

All the high schools are teaching busi- 
ness courses. Isn't it a pity you didn't 
learn it there, when you had the chance; 
but, of course, that doesn't help any now. 

Then there are night schools in all the 
large cities, where many a tired girl who 
has worked all day at a counter tries to 
better her position by learning a more pay- 
ing trade. This is a terribly hard way, but 
a possible one. I hope you won't be so 
independent as to try to meet your tuition 
in this manner. 

Now I have a scheme to propose to you. 
Take it or leave it, but don't get hurt. I 
know of a private school, run by an expert 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 189 

stenographer, where pupils can enter at 
any time of the year and receive practically 
private instruction, though they have 
some class-work too. One of the four 
girls who lives in our flat went there. And 
she got her first job in three months. If 
she could, you could. She claims that one 
girl got through in one month, and se- 
cured a little cheap position for five dollars 
a week where she stayed until her speed 
increased sufficiently to warrant more pay. 
The big schools require six, eight, ten 
months, sometimes more or less, accord- 
ing to the aptitude and education of the 
pupil. Some of them have a fall entering 
class, others admit beginners all through 
the year. 

But enter somewhere, you must, and I 
advise the small private school for one of 
your age and schooling, starting in the 
middle of the year. You won't need the 



190 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

courses in English, spelling, etc., which 
take up so much time in the large business 
colleges. 

Now I put a certain sum in the savings 
bank every week. It is a principle with 
me. I receive three and one-half per cent, 
interest. I am looking for a safe invest- 
ment and you look good to me. Will you 
permit me to advance you your necessary 
tuition at four per cent.? It will benefit 
us both. The longer it takes you to re- 
turn it, the better off I am. And, believe 
me, you will be able to repay it and be 
wholly out of debt and on your feet far 
quicker than if you try the work-all-day- 
study-all-night racket. Think it over, and 
remember it's an investment on my part. 
And I shall be a regular Shylock! 

Here are a few suggestions I want to 
impress upon you right now: Any good- 
for-nothing can take dictation (and 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 191 

rapidly, too). But it takes a good-for- 
something to read it back accurately. 
Hence, begin by never writing a single 
character you can't read readily. Don't 
puzzle too long — stop and look up that 
doubtful word — then go on. Speed 
comes naturally. Don't force it. 

Better learn touch typewriting, which is 
almost universally taught in the best 
schools. The sight writers often gain as 
great speed, but the constant changing of 
eye focus is exhausting. Be patient. 
Practise. Don't give up. And you'll get 
there. 

Did I ever tell you how I happen to be 
where I am? Well, it was through an ad., 
and, say, a word about answering an ad- 
vertisement mightn't be out of place. 
Some months ago I needed an assistant 
and the firm put an ad. in the papers. We 
had approximately a thousand replies, 



192 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

which I had to look over and select the 
most likely. They were cautions! Such 
writing, such spelling, such portrayal of 
family affairs, and accomplishments of 
no value to a prospective stenographer! 
Only a few stated what they could do, and 
most of them were so condescending 
and patronizing that they were passed 
over. 

To answer a newspaper advertisement 
(and beware of the snides) tell briefly and 
legibly who you are, what you can do, 
whether or not you live with your parents, 
state your education and experience, and 
give three references, preferably the names 
of some former employers, if any. I gave 
the names of my school superintendent, 
high school principal and the first man I 
worked for. Ministers don't count much 
in the business world. Also state if you 
are strong. Don't begin by asking about 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 193 

the hours, or the salary, either. Offer 
your goods and then let them name their 
price, which you can discuss later. If you 
can make your letter a bit original, still 
sticking wholly to business, you'll stand 
twice the chance of getting it looked into. 
It is business-like to enclose an addressed 
and stamped envelope. A letter speaks 
volumes for the sender — its neatness, 
accuracy, and clear, straightforward 
statement. Probably you know all this, 
but don't take it amiss from one who has 
been surprised to find out how many 
highly educated girls don't know how to 
compose a simple letter of application. 

From the hundreds of girls who re- 
sponded to the same advertisement that 
I did, thirty were selected for an inter- 
view. And they chose me — think what a 
dreadful twenty-nine the others must have 
been! When I applied in person, the head 



194 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

of the firm was looking over two of the 
thirty possibilities. The door was open 
between the inner and outer offices, so that 
I couldn't help hearing all that passed. 
And I'm not as ashamed as perhaps I 
ought to be to admit that I listened with 
all my ears. 

Said she, proudly: "I'm a graduate of 
Swellsley College." 

Replied the man: "Well, that doesn't 
hurt you particularly." 

Continued the supercilious lady: "If 
you are anxious to have culture and re- 
finement brought into your office I think 
I would like to come, but if you're looking 
for a mere stenographer and typist, I'm 
afraid I wouldn't do as I don't know either 
and would prefer to be just your confiden- 
tial, private secretary." 

And that highly polished, fine-minded 
gentleman stood up and admitted that his 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 195 

office undoubtedly did need " culture and 
refinement/' but he was afraid he'd have 
to get along without them rather than the 
worker he needed. He showed her out, 
bowed in the next applicant, with a sort 
of mad look on his face which changed to 
amusement as he caught sight of me, smi- 
ling in my corner at the impudence. 

The poor little thing who came next 
had no chance at all. She couldn't even 
speak correct English — how then could 
she expect to write it from the meshes of 
dictation? Upholstered like a piece of 
furniture, she wore frowzy puffs, mon- 
strous heels worn way down and holey 
gloves. The allurement of her stiff, white, 
high-collared, peek-a-boo waist couldn't 
make up for the rest — the vulgar skirt, 
the huge, brass belt-buckle and loud hat. 
Besides, the poor child was actually chew- 
ing gum ! I've since wondered who wrote 



196 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

her letter of application, which was a fair 
specimen. 

As for me, I've been here three years 
and am likely to remain during the rest of 
my usefulness. I do my best and the firm 
shows that it is appreciated. 

Every one has deserted the building and 
I must go home for it's after seven. I 
had to come back after supper, anyway, to 
finish up some work. Whatever you de- 
cide, count on me. 

Faithfully always, 

Peggy. 

P. S. Before sealing this let me add 
that, after all, I believe even the dishpan 
is more attractive than the typewriter, pro- 
vided it's your own dishpan. Why don't 
you marry him? Don't be like me, a very 
tired 

Machine. 




SALLY RECEIVES A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS 

Emerald Lake, Vt., Jan. 5. 
To Miss Joy Kent, 
Maywood, Mass. 

Tickled to death to hear from you. 

Was so glad came near sending telegram. 

Fear wires would be hot all night if I 

started in to say my say that way. Great 

compliment to have you ask advice of me. 

197 



198 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

You remember that page about Morse 
in our American history books, and the 
first telegram that was ever sent being 
"What hath God wrought?" — a girl 
sent that, a seventeen-year-old girl, named 
Annie Ellsworth. And girls have been 
doing it ever since. 

You might do something a great deal 
worse than become a telegrapher. It is 
intensely exciting, knowing about every 
one's business before any one else. Only 
trouble is you have to emulate the clam*. 
It is against the ethics to squeal, and be- 
sides you'd lose your job if you got caught 
at it. 

One great advantage is that you don't 
have to know anything. You'd probably 
make a dandy operator. Don't mean that 
you don't know anything, exactly, but it 
isn't necessary to be a college graduate, 
or anything like that. I only went 



The What-Shall-l-Do Girl 199 

through grammar school, you know. If 
you are ever vigilant and attentive and can 
write legibly and spell " phthisic " and 
know the cities in your geography and 
enough to do as you're told — that's all 
you'll need to know. 

You must be awfully discouraged to 
think of consulting me, but don't let the 
future frighten you. Look into your heart 
and see what kind of work appeals to you, 
and if you don't find anything especially 
appealing, and decide you really haven't 
any talent whatsoever (I can't judge 
about your voice, not knowing much 
about music), then you're just like me 
and aren't fit for anything! You've got to 
choose between being a clerk or a book- 
keeper or a stenographer or a telephone 
girl or something of that order, and I 
think telegraphy about as good as any- 
thing. 



200 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I thought I had forgotten how to create 
a long sentence. It seems so good to be 
filling in the " the's." I transmit so much 
ten-word jerk stuff, that I must sound like 
that fellow in Dickens, what's his name, 
Jingle, Alfred Jingle, whose little sputter- 
ing, broken phrases I read up in the moun- 
tains summer before last. 

Maybe you didn't know that I spend my 
summers in the swellest resorts there are, 
sometimes at the sea-shore, sometimes in 
the mountains. Well, I do. Last year, 
until late in the fall, I was operator at the 
Eagle Cliff Hotel, and had my board and 
keep like the best of the guests, as well as 
a pay envelope of which no one need be 
ashamed. The same company that runs 
this Inn at Emerald Lake also runs sev- 
eral all-the-year-round hotels in some of 
our largest cities. I get transferred from 
the city, when I can, in the warm weather; 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 201 

and I usually make it. The Inn is being- 
kept open all winter this year as an experi- 
ment, so I'm staying right on. 

You can't get this kind of a job right 
away. I should say not! I didn't. I be- 
gan in one of the big central offices of the 
Western Union. They called me a check 
girl. I got four dollars! Some start as 
high as seven, but they are older than I 
was. I was only sixteen. 

After they've learned the business girls 
may stretch their worth anywhere from 
eight or ten to twelve, fifteen or even 
eighteen dollars. Men don't earn much 
more; twenty-two to twenty-five is about 
their limit for good everyday telegraphers. 
Overtime work adds to this, of course. 

Where I learned to operate the begin- 
ners spent several hours each day in a 
class room at the instrument. Here, too, 
we had to practise our penmanship and 



202 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

spelling, and become acquainted with the 
typewriter. I always take my messages 
on the machine, as do most of the up-to- 
date operators. 

Let me see, you'll want to know how 
long it took me before I was sure of my- 
self. Eight months, though some of the 
older pupils got through in six and got 
jobs. 

It was a good while before I could get 
over having palpitation every time I 
heard financial and commercial messages 
full of mathematical and technical terms, 
of many of which I was entirely ignorant. 

There are all sorts of things to be mas- 
tered besides the code, you know, abbre- 
viations, cipher messages, cablegrams, 
franked messages, weather reports, rail- 
road signals, time by telegraph, train 
schedules, accident and weather reports, 
night service, stock reports and quota- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 203 

tions, C. N. D.'s, and details " too numer- 
ous to mention, " as they say of auction 
lists. Some of these you may never be 
called upon to use, but you are taught to 
know how, should occasion arise; and 
also given a course in branch office man- 
agement. 

Then you should understand something 
about testing wires, and the care of in- 
struments, the key, sounder and relay, 
batteries and switchboards. 

It's lots harder to receive than to send, 
at first. You get used to the little tick- 
tick-a-tick after a while, though, and it 
becomes second nature. I'm not afraid of 
transmitting or receiving anything now, 
because I began by being as careful as I 
knew how to be with every message and 
I believe it has helped wonderfully. 

Practice counts more in this business 
than anything else; practice and careful 



204 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

attention. You must be accurate. A 
sloberly (excuse that vulgar sounding 
word, but it's just what I mean) a sloberly 
operator never gets anywhere. Rapidity 
comes in time. You must be just keyed 
up to a message when it comes and tend 
strictly to business. No guess work here! 

Mistakes are fatal. They are considered 
inexcusable, especially when reports are 
read back, as all messages should be if 
important. 

People want to receive telegrams which 
can be read with some sense to their word- 
ing. So it's up to the operator to dot her 
" I's " and cross her " T's " and mind her 
"Ps" and "Q's!" 

I remember one telegram which cost a 
young man his position, and rightly, too. 
A school-girl had disappeared, run away, 
and her distracted parents were searching 
the country for her. She had gone to visit 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 205 

a cousin, who immediately sent on the 
message: " Grace is down with us." The 
operator at the home office wrote: " Grace 
is dead with us ! " I could run on forever 
with similar instances. 

People tell me they should think I'd 
have nervous prostration, but I tell them 
it isn't nearly so bad as being a " hello " 
girl with a receiver glued to my ear all the 
time. And it's a deal more interesting 
than plugging in connections from morn- 
ing till night in dizzy succession. When I 
hear telegraphy called monotonous, I con- 
clude that the speaker knows very little 
about it, and wonder what he'd think of 
pegging it on a high stool and keeping 
books. 

In the office where I began to study 
there was the strictest kind of a super- 
visor. We had to conform to the rules 
about being prompt and neat in appear- 



206 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

ance, and not a speck of funny business 
was tolerated for a moment. I'm glad now 
that he was an old bear, that supervisor. 
His cubs were well brought up. 

As to jobs, there are plenty of them 
waiting for the competent: Western 
Union, Postal Telegraph-Cable, railroads, 
private lines in hotels, brokerage offices, 
and government positions. 

So if you can't do anything famous, 
do as I do and be a messenger to the pub- 
lic. Some day, who knows, an earthquake 
or a flood or a wreck may give you a 
chance for eternal fame by letting you 
send, " This is my last message/' before 
it kills you! 

It's a worthy occupation which any girl 
with a fair knowledge of the three " R's " 
and the ghost of a New England con- 
science can master. 

Hearing all the news and being obliged 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 207 

to suppress it to all except the parties con- 
cerned, we telegraphers become a kind of 
silent gossips, and sometimes it's pretty 
hard to keep our lips tightly closed about 
some choice, spicy bit of information, es- 
pecially for us girls. Mum's the word. If 
you can make your tongue live up to it, 
don't be afraid to tackle the code. 

I have given you only a brief dispatch 
on the subject of telegraphy, and do hope 
it won't sound like cipher to you. 

By the way, there's a dandy young 
woman in the library here. She picks out 
all my reading matter for me, and I have 
become quite intimate with her since I 
came to the Lake. I trust I didn't get my 
wires crossed when I took the liberty of 
asking her to write you about her work, 
in case mine doesn't interest you. She 
promised to send you a whole catalogue 
of data. Did she? 



208 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Wireless is the ambition of my life. I 
am studying it every chance I get, and 
can now receive quite well. I caught a 
wireless message from, — may I call him 
Tad? — last night. It was the signal of 
distress! 

But there, you know best which wires 
to pull. Do what you will, but remember 
that I am yours 

Co-operatively, 

Sally Saunders. 




BETTY DREADS THE BIDDY LOOK 

Washington School, Riverton, N. Y. 
After School. 

Dear Far-away Joy: 

My last little wriggler has departed, 
and now, if you'll accompany me into the 
dressing room, we'll have a serious talk. 

Your frame of mind, judging from your 

209 



210 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

letter, assures me that you are just ripe 
for work, and I believe you will derive 
much happiness from whatever vocation 
you follow. 

Knowing you, as I do, I should say that 
teaching offered the best field, by all 
means. (Please remember that it re- 
quires some enthusiasm to say this at the 
close of the first day after vacation, when 
the children, having had two weeks' free- 
dom, fight like wild creatures at the at- 
tempt to put them back into bondage. 
To-morrow, though, they will be like 
lambs.) 

It takes still more enthusiasm to recom- 
mend the art of pedagogy when I behold 
my unbalanced register, a not-yet-made-up 
plan-book, the delinquent report cards, 
and a pile of uncorrected work of to-day 
staring me in the face. All these details 
have to be attended to out of school hours, 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 211 

and yet some people claim that a teacher 
has such an easy time of it, only working 
from nine to four, with two hours at noon- 
time! Only a part of her duty is over 
when the pupils file out. Then she must 
begin on the next day's program, finish up 
the present one, and wind up the rods 
upon rods of red tape which apparently 
are indispensable to the school require- 
ments of to-day. 

However, in spite of its worries, I 
couldn't bring myself to do anything else. 
I love to teach. The pleasure I take in my 
work is my real reason for endorsing it for 
you. 

There are other considerations: With- 
out wishing to be snobbish, exactly, it 
can't be denied that the school-teacher is 
held in higher esteem by society — has 
more caste, so to speak, than most women 
wage-earners. She is looked up to and 



212 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

given recognition wherever she goes. 
Personally, I believe any self-supporting 
girl is entitled to the same place in the 
world's regard, but you'll find it takes a 
pretty high-grade stenographer, for in- 
stance, to be received where a schoolmarm 
is welcomed. I'm not praising the pro- 
fession because it's " genteel," as grand- 
mama would say, but it is " genteel," 
nevertheless. 

If you possess the innate love of teach- 
ing, you're bound to do it anyway. If you 
inculcate it, there are innumerable advan- 
tages. Among them, spare time. Not in 
the actual number of hours of the regular 
school day, on account of the before-and- 
after session duties, and, often, night 
work, as I've just mentioned. But she has 
her Saturdays free to herself, and who else 
in the working world can claim so much 
time? Then, too, the fact that if she's not 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 213 

feeling quite up to the mark she can go 
directly home after the closing hour 
means a lot. I often think that the poor 
girls chained to their posts from seven and 
eight in the morning until six at night 
would appreciate it. Coupled with this, 
most schools allow a teacher a week or ten 
days' (sometimes longer) leave of absence 
for sickness, and she doesn't get docked, 
either, though a substitute usually gets 
two-thirds of her pay. 

Folks cant about our vacations. They 
give us lots of time for rest and opportu- 
nity to travel and enjoy our own pursuits, 
it is true. But they don't bring in any 
money, and yet we have to live, which 
means that we must save enough from our 
meagre salaries to tide us over. Many a 
teacher with some one dependent upon 
her has to work through her vaca- 
tions, and many more take up sum- 



214 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

mer courses to try to better their effi- 
ciency. 

But given caste and an extra amount of 
spare time for our own hobbies, two 
mighty assets are recorded right here in 
themselves. 

Besides these, the pensioning of the 
faithful grown old in the service is not to 
be sneered at by those who would enter 
the field. Little do many young teachers 
realize that their entire lives may be con- 
secrated to enlightening their annual 
broods. I sigh every time the probability 
comes over me that my first class is on its 
way to manhood and womanhood, when 
it will soon leave school, go out into the 
world, get married and send back its chil- 
dren to me, still in the ranks. But along 
with the wrinkles and white hair of that 
not too distant day, it is comforting to 
think of the possible pension — just like a 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 215 

worn-out soldier, disabled for the fray. 
Of course, all cities and towns do not have 
pension funds, but the time is coming 
when they will. 

Nor should I be ruminating about " old 
soldiers " when a raw recruit is saluting 
me. 

Joy, your present position reminds me 
painfully of how I began teaching. You 
remember I had to leave school the mid- 
dle of my senior year and go to work. 
Like you, I hadn't the slightest idea of 
what to do or how to do it, but I'd made 
up my mind that mother shouldn't sup- 
port a great girl like me any longer. She 
begged me to finish out the year, and 
afterwards I wished I had. It's not easy 
to begin teaching when you have to admit 
that you haven't even a high school di- 
ploma! 

I went the rounds of all the teachers' 



216 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

agencies in the city — there are several 
reliable ones in every large city — to see 
if I could get a country school. 

Never since have I undergone so dis- 
couraging a day. Oh, wasn't it cold, 
tramping from one agency to another, 
waiting my turn, and always hearing the 
same things — what I lacked in training 
and experience. I had no dinner that day 
— it was hard enough for mother to spare 
me car fare to and from home. 

Each agency informed me promptly 
that the registration dues, usually two or 
three dollars, were required in advance. 
When I replied that I hadn't sufficient 
money with me, I was handed a blank 
form to take home and fill out and mail 
back to them. 

What normal school had I graduated 
from? Had I ever taught before? If so, 
what was my experience? they asked 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 217 

stereotypedly. To which, with sinking 
heart, I had to falter, " None." 

They said I was pretty young, that I'd 
better spend a couple of years at a free 
normal, and then if I'd come in again 
they'd give me a good school. Young? 
How I realized it! Normal school? How 
I should have loved to go. But the neces- 
sity of my getting my own living — they 
didn't seem to understand that. Nor did 
they know that my mother was trying to 
keep her fatherless family together with 
her needle and that rheumatism was crip- 
pling her frail little faithful fingers. 

Everywhere it was the same. My 
spirits had fallen way down into my 
boots. 

Then I met a man with a heart, and in 
one of those blood-sucking agencies, too, 
the smallest of them all, which I had pur- 
posely left until last. He also began on 



218 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

advance registration fees and normal 
school, while I sank into a chair and si- 
lently wondered if there were any use in 
listening to what I failed in all over again. 
The man stopped abruptly, and I caught 
him scrutinizing me as I looked up. I 
fancied he discovered that my shoes were 
thin and that my gloves were shabby, 
though I curled up my ringers to hide it 
as much as possible. 

Then, somehow or other, he got it all 
out of me: where I lived, why I had left 
school, all about mother, how I stood in 
school, and all sorts of things I never 
thought to tell any one. He also asked 
the name of my superintendent, and he 
was kind, oh, so kind. His solid advice 
has been a factor in my life ever since, 
and to him, in a large measure, I owe what 
success has been mine. 

He told me of a district school in the 






The What-ShdU-I-Do Girl 219 

wilds of Vermont, which was without a 
teacher. He couldn't promise me any- 
thing definite, but made me leave him three 
references so he could look me up. The 
best I had to look forward to was that the 
school was so far away and unpromising 
that no experienced teacher would take it, 
and if no one better fitted than I turned 
up in the meanwhile he would save it for 
me. He broke his rule for me, too, and 
said I needn't pay any registration fee un- 
less he got me the school, and then not 
until I had received my first salary. 

I remember, as I rose to thank him, I 
couldn't keep the tears out of my eyes, 
I was so thankful and cold and faint — 
faint from nervous exhaustion and lack 
of my usual dinner. Then he called his 
secretary and told her to take me into his 
private office till I felt better. 

Goodness, how I ramble on! 



220 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

When I saw that man again it was mid- 
summer, after the close of my first half- 
year. He had given me the school and ad- 
vanced my railroad fare. I had been re- 
elected. How bright everything seemed. 
Mother was better and had made a lot of 
money out of the graduation dresses of 
the girls in my class. She made yours, I 
think. I had a small sum, about fifty dol- 
lars, after paying for my board, fares, and 
the agency. (You know, they charge you 
a certain per cent, of a whole year's salary, 
whether you teach a year or not, for each 
school they find you. Mine was five per 
cent. This is besides the registration fee, 
of course.) I had lived like a miser, deny- 
ing myself everything except postage 
stamps. 

Imagine a little white schoolhouse of 
one room, nestled among the hills at the 
bend of a lonely country road, without 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 221 

another habitation in sight. They are 
scattered all over rural New England. A 
cracked blackboard and a worn map 
of Vermont adorned the walls. The 
teacher's desk was a rude pine table, just 
like you imagine was used in your grand- 
mother's day. The children sat in double 
seats, which didn't make the discipline 
any too easy. Then there was the stove, 
'round which the little scamps, all sizes 
and ages, used to huddle on cold wet days. 
Wood had to be put in every few minutes. 
Some of the time my big boys were of! 
cutting ice, so I had to make the fire 
myself in the dreary, freezing morn- 
ings. 

Still, I had a position and was self-sup- 
porting, instead of being a drag on 
mother. That thought spurred me on to 
success. I boarded with a deaf and an- 
cient female, who lived too far for me to 



222 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

go home at noon. Hence the tin pail full 
of abhorred doughnuts and pie. 

There were many anxious times when 
it took every bit of tact and ingenuity I 
could muster to meet the situation. There 
were also happy, social times and grange 
meetings, ladies' aids, and church affairs, 
where I couldn't help overhearing the 
country people doing me up brown 
with gossip, most of it harmless and 
kindly. 

The most fearful part of it all came 
when I first arrived in the village. I had 
to pass the State's examination for 
teachers, held in a neighboring town. 
And if I had failed, after the fight of se- 
curing that school and the long trip on 
borrowed money, I rather think I should 
have passed gently away. But my good 
angel guided me through the rather out- 
of-the-usual questions, and then I had a 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 223 

dinner with the examining superintendent 
who ate with his knife! 

At the close of the winter and spring 
terms I was a different girl — stronger 
with the bracing country air, and con- 
fident of success; in fact, I thought my- 
self quite capable of filling any teaching 
position now that I had had some blessed 
experience. 

I sought the kind man. He didn't 
recognize me. New shoes, a freshened 
wardrobe and a smile work wonders. He 
had another school picked out for me, still 
in the wilderness, to be sure, but with a 
better salary. Of course, that meant I'd 
have to pay another five per cent, of the 
salary of that school if I accepted it; and 
I had just finished paying five per cent, for 
the half year I'd taught and would have 
to make up the same amount for the half 
year I didn't teach on the first school! It 



224 The What~Shall-I-Do Girl 

seemed terrible to me to pay out that 
money for the time I wasn't there, but I 
suppose agencies have to get their living 
somehow. Anyway, as I explained, it's 
a certain per cent, of a full year's salary 
for each new school they get you, unless 
you're a substitute. 

Grateful as I was and ever will be to 
this agency, it seems to me that if I had 
had a normal training I would have called 
on the superintendents for miles around 
and been my own agency. But there are 
girls who don't have, the initiative, or, per- 
haps, the ready car fare; and, besides, I 
know of several who have received far 
better positions through this medium than 
were possible in their immediate locality. 

I figured out the problem of raise in 
salary vs. agency dues, and found that I'd 
gain a little by the change. I kept the 
second district school a whole year, and 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 225 

then was given a better room, with only 
two grades instead of eight, by my super- 
intendent. This schoolhouse was situated 
right in the village and the work was 
pleasanter and easier every way. 

Still, I could never hope for a really 
good school until I was better fitted. 
Efficiency, training, — I must go to nor- 
mal. Every one said so. The kind man 
told me the only reason he gave me my 
first school was because he had no one 
else in the middle of the year who would 
accept it. " You see," he declared, " the 
poorly paid rural schools either have to 
take a green, inexperienced teacher, who 
may or may not be a success, or else a full- 
fledged, older person, who hasn't been a 
success or she wouldn't be after such a 
vacancy." 

Even now I wonder how I ever saved 
enough for my board during that one year 



226 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I spent at normal when I was a special 
student. But I did it, and have been 
cramming in all the possible summer 
courses for teachers ever since. 

Somehow, as I recall all the struggles 
of those early days, I can't find it in my 
heart to advise you to begin it. A girl 
with your education and ability can teach 
somewhere without any training, but it's 
a long, hard, endless pull of nerve-racking, 
desolate years before the experience you 
gather is enough to offset the normal you 
lack. Now, in most of our cities, normal 
training is required, no matter how much 
experience you may have had. 

Some one once said that no one ever 
amounted to anything until he had bor- 
rowed money and paid it back again. I 
hate the idea and could never advise any 
one to do it. Yet, I realize now that if 
some one had seen me safely through a 






The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 227 

normal course, I could have paid back the 
board, book and fare money, saved some, 
and been far better off than I am to-day 
after years of plugging incessantly — to 
say nothing of the difference in the way 
I might have lived during that period of 
getting on my feet. Experience you must 
have, but I hope and pray you will not 
have to take the road I took to get it. 
Though it is possible, remember. 

There is a free normal in your section 
of the State. You might be able to enter 
this year's class now, as a special, and 
make up the first half-year's work next 
summer. Thus you would save six 
months' time. Efficiency, let me din it 
into you, is the word of the age; and 
you've got to live up to it or get out of 
the way for some one else. Begin right 
end to, if you possibly can, and not back- 
wards as I did. 



228 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Teachers have lots of good times. Last 
spring those in our building went to 
Washington, and oh, it was such a treat! 
I had never been anywhere before, except 
to Vermont! This year, four of the girls 
are going to Europe on a personally con- 
ducted tour — my most cherished dream, 
but a distant one, I'm afraid. 

If there is anything else I can tell you, 
don't hesitate to ask and ask and ask. I 
hope this letter hasn't been too discourag- 
ing. I've tried to be truthful and fair. 
Get your training and teach — don't teach 
and get your training. 

Oh, one word more about your music. 
Why don't you take a teacher's course in 
that? Special teachers often make more 
money than regulars. Why not write for 
particulars? 

Darker than pitch. The janitor has just 
fired up for the night and gone home. I'll 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 229 

lose my boarding place if I'm late to sup- 
per, so 

Bye, bye, with much, affection from 

Elizabeth. 

P. S. What have I been telling you? 
At best, teaching is an awful grind. You 
get into a rut, where you narrow down 
and acquire that " biddy " look I dread. 
Most of us who get the chance, get out. 
If you can find love in your heart, you'd 
be wiser to take " Tad " and teach your 
own little kiddies. Forgive this from 

Betty. 




THERESA DECLARES SHE'S A WALKING 
POOLE'S INDEX 

Public Library j Emerald Lake, Vt. 

My Dear Unknown Lady: 

Our mutual friend (a purist would 

probably say there was no such thing, but 

the expression is so convenient!) our 

mutual friend, Sally Saunders, who, you 

230 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 231 

know, is spending the winter at the 
Inn, is responsible for this communi- 
cation to you and should be made to 
stand the consequences, if any there 
are. 

Sally dropped in upon me last evening 
and began to vociferate so volubly that I 
finally had to lead her by the hand over to 
a " No Loud Talking " sign, which I 
pointed to distractedly. Sally kept right 
on, however, saying, oh, ever so many 
splendid things about you. 

What a true-blue, sincere little girl Sally 
is! She is so terribly conscientious. She 
seemed very much concerned about you, 
and set your image before me with such 
glowing appreciation that I cannot help 
believing that you are a reincarnated god- 
dess. I feel deeply honored that a mere 
plebeian like me has the privilege of ad- 
dressing you. 



232 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Whom Sally likes, I like. So consider 
yourself liked right away. If we ever have 
the opportunity of becoming better ac- 
quainted, I hope my name will find its 
way upon your list of friends. 

Sally asked me to tell you all I know. 
It won't take very long, Miss Kent ! Such 
as it is, I lay it at your service. 

Do you passionately love books? Do 
you love them so much that you not only 
love to read them and own them, but love 
to handle them, to touch them, to see them 
around in other people's houses, where 
you may never get any closer than to look 
at them? I do. 

Does it pain you, yes, positively pain 
you, to see a person injure a book — lay 
it down half open, deliberately turn down 
its pages to mark a place, or ruthlessly 
force it apart and break its delicate back? 
Not one in ninety-nine knows how to open 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 233 

a new book! It distracts me beyond 
everything! 

To me books are human, far better than 
some humans, for somewhere in their vast 
number dwell companions with just the 
qualities you best admire, qualities often 
difficult to find among the real flesh and 
blood of your chance acquaintance. 

An artistic cover sends me into rhap- 
sodies. The very type and feel of the 
paper are entrancing. All the make-up is 
of great interest, and when I come across 
a catchy title, a little out of the rut and 
suggestive, it gives me intense pleasure. 

If I enjoy a book I keep it in constant 
circulation. I become a regular adverti- 
sing medium. " I don't know what I want. 
What's in that's good? " is the beginning 
of the continual daily performance, when- 
ever some one comes in to exchange a 
book. "Take this; it's simply great!" I 



234 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

declare, shoving my latest favorite 
through the slide. 

Thus do I send my children out into 
the world, for they are my children, these 
books. Perhaps the authors might dis- 
pute this point, but they must allow, at 
least, that they are my foster-children. 
I regard them as such, anyway, and keep 
them in fine trim and ever on the trot. 
No sooner does one return and render a 
good account of himself to show that he 
hasn't been visiting long enough to be 
fined than out he goes again to gladden 
a new little bookworm. 

You would be amazed to realize the in- 
fluence a librarian has upon the reading 
public of a small community. Of course, 
there are books and books. We carry 
both kinds. Having grown up in the at- 
mosphere of good books and being nat- 
urally a lover of worth-while reading, I 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 235 

can keep our young people pretty close to 
the path of standard literature and the 
higher class of novels by merely suggest- 
ing what they shall take out when they 
ask me to. They take my word for it, usu- 
ally like what I give them, and ask for 
more. 

In a wee mite of a way I feel myself a 
kind of educator, for isn't the cultivation 
of a good taste for reading considered one 
of the very best parts of education? 

If left entirely to themselves, the boys 
and girls of to-day are apt to select rather 
trashy, highly-colored fiction, and the 
most fastidious of them seem bound to 
stick to one style. It's interesting to 
switch them off, little by little, into some- 
thing that is really fine, and watch the way 
they devour it. 

Not that we carry a heap of trash. Our 
books are selected most carefully by the 



236 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

board of trustees, but you know the num- 
berless volumes which are to be found on 
the shelves of all libraries, that are per- 
fectly harmless and yet insipid collections 
of absolutely nothing. 

I give you this little introduction (the 
introduction, by the way, is my favorite 
part of any book, when it's well written) 
because I want you to have a glimpse in- 
side the heart of a librarian who loves her 
work. Here is a real incentive, and, I 
know you will agree, a noble one. No 
work amounts to anything without an in- 
centive, a motive, a purpose, — do you 
think so? 

At a hasty glance the duties of a library 
worker seem to be what might be called 
a " soft snap." Just receive and deliver 
books and acquire a muscular knowledge 
of the stamp act, and that's all there is 
to it. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 237 

" The hours, too, dead easy," airily ex- 
plains some one who knows nothing about 
it. " Just two to six and seven to nine, 
or three to five, or four to one, and three 
nights a week if you live far enough 
back in the country," they glibly reel 
off. 

Wait a second. How about that card 
index — who does that indexing for each 
new book? I do. Do you ever have new 
catalogues — who makes them up? I do. 
Whose business is it to mend torn pages 
so neatly with transparent paper? Mine. 
I see the newspaper and magazine files are 
up to the minute — who attends to that? 
Urn, hum, I do. Whom is it up to to ar- 
range that attractive case full of the new- 
est books so temptingly? Me. And the 
u just added to our library " lists in the 
papers? Ditto. And so forth and so on 
through a long list of details which re- 



238 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

quire many a morning's attention, but 
with which I will not weary you. 

Sally impressed it upon me that you de- 
sired to know how to start. I began at 
the bottom, the very lowest bottom, as 
soon as I was out of high school. During 
the vacation of the summer before I grad- 
uated I assisted in our little library part 
of the time. The head librarian (there 
were only two of us) received the princely 
pay of two hundred and seventy-five dol- 
lars a year, while mine was put completely 
out of sight by that munificent sum. You 
must bear in mind that I lived in a tiny 
town of less than three thousand. I lived 
at home and had what I earned for spend- 
ing money. 

Some weeks before school closed I wrote 
to the librarians of larger surrounding 
towns, and applied for the first vacancy. 
I could not hope to stay in our home li- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 239 

brary, even had I been contented with the 
little position, because our lady in charge 
was a fixture. I can never remember 
when she wasn't there, and believe she 
must have begun with the corner stone 
of the old building. 

After a time word came from one of 
my letters, and I immediately plunged 
into Emerald Lake, where I've been for 
over two years. Here I have had excel- 
lent training under a splendid librarian 
who took a four years' course in college. 
She said every assistant she had ever 
trained into being of any use to her had 
gone off and got married as soon as she 
was good for anything. I promised her 
I would never do such a thing. And I 
haven't. But she did! Last June I be- 
came the " It " of this establishment. 

The demand is, of course, for trained 
librarians. It is almost impossible to get 



240 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

into even a small town without real ex- 
perience or practical training. I try to 
make up for my lack of college training 
by studying all the time I can spare the 
subjects outlined by my former head libra- 
rian. She was good enough to lend me 
some of the French and German books she 
used and tell me just how to take up each 
course. Why, a librarian nowadays is 
supposed to know all about the making of 
books, even to the bindings and water- 
marks ! 

To-day has been so snowy that I 
brought my supper with me, as I often 
do in unpleasant weather. I have been 
writing you during the " closed " hour, 
and it is now just seven o'clock so I must 
open the doors. You wouldn't believe 
how many folks will leave their perfectly 
warm houses in a howling storm like this 
to go after something to read. I do hope 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 241 

they will bring green bags, or some sort 
of protective covering, for my poor perish- 
able children, so that the color won't run 
off their defenceless backs! 

There, I have let them in, a whole troop 
of boys. Gracious, what a noise they 
make! I'll have to leave you and go right 
into the children's reading room. 

(Later) 

I've shut them up! 

One of a librarian's prime duties is to 
answer all sorts of crazy questions, which 
brings to mind that old quotation of John- 
son's — " Knowledge is of two kinds: we 
know a subject ourselves, or we know 
where we can find information upon it." 
I have to be a walking Poole's Index, 
ready for the queerest queries. 

If this somewhat detached account of 



242 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

my work offers any inducements to you, 
why don't you try to get into a small 
library to see how you'd like it? You 
would not earn much to begin with, 
scarcely your shoe-strings. Perhaps your 
own town may need an assistant. I would 
ask if I were you. Shall I send you the 
names and addresses of two librarians I 
know? 

I shall be happy to hear further from 
you, and if you ever do come to Emerald 
Lake to see Sally, please drop in. 

Sally hinted something about a young 
man. I think as she does about it, if you 
will pardon my presumption in saying so. 

There go those boys again! I must get 
after them, so excuse the brief manner in 
which I cut this off. 

Cordially yours, 

Theresa Davenport. 




ELINOR TRIPS THE LIGHT FANTASTIC 
TOE 

Dancing School Day 
at Chipman's Hall, Easton. 

My Dear Long -lost Joy: 

Tucked away in my chatelaine for refer- 
ence at the first moment of leisure, your 
letter is insistently shrieking, " Answer 
me! Answer me!" So I just will, and 

243 



244 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

right now, too, with the implements at 
hand. They consist of a dozen blank 
dance orders with dangly little tasselled 
pencils attached. 

My afternoon class of some thirty-three 
Terpsichorean marvels has just grand 
marched and courtesied itself out of the 
hall. I've bowed so much myself that I 
am actually bowing to you as I begin to 
greet you. Each child salutes his partner 
and then me as he leaves the ballroom. It 
is a great back exerciser! 

In less than two hours the evening class, 
all adults, will come trooping in. I have 
two classes in each town where I teach, 
one from four until six for the youngsters, 
and the other, high schoolers, mostly, 
from eight until ten. Besides three sets 
of these, varying from twenty to forty 
pupils each, I have one married class and 
a beginners' Saturday morning. So you 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 245 

see it is " trip the light fantastic toe " most 
of the time with me. 

My terms are five dollars for twelve 
lessons for children, and six dollars per 
quarter for grown-ups. 

Expenses are high. There is the hall to 
be hired, and I always select the one in the 
town best suited to the purpose. The 
pianist has to have her travelling ex- 
penses, and I pay mine a round little sum 
besides, for I find it pays me in the end to 
furnish good music, the pupils progress so 
much faster. I always keep my business 
card in three or four local papers in the 
different towns, and that counts up. Then 
there are incidentals, dance orders (I buy 
them by the gross and don't make my 
classes pay for them as some teachers do) 
and fares and suppers for myself and 
Miss Norton, who plays for me. And so 
it goes. 



246 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

But it comes in, too, lots of it. Only 
you must, take into consideration that 
the dancing season doesn't last through 
the whole fifty-two weeks in the year. 
Vacations pop up at frequent intervals. 
Pupils fall in and pupils fall out from time 
to time, which makes the number very un- 
certain and elastic. Some quarters coin 
money; others barely cover the outlay; 
and twice I've gone way behind. This is 
my best winter, so far. 

In spite of the high cost of living I find 
that people are bound their children shall 
have everything that's going, and even 
more than they used to have when the cost 
wasn't talked about so much. 

All little tots love to dance. That is 
what makes the teaching of it so delight- 
ful. There is no humdrum practising 
about it which becomes so burdensome to 
children, as in the case of piano lessons. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 247 

Nor are they obliged to do it as they are 
to go to school. They love to dance. 
They beg to come. It is a privilege and 
not a detested duty. They enjoy it more 
and more after they know how. There- 
fore, the class as a whole cannot help be- 
ing a success, almost in spite of the 
teacher. 

There are awkward, bashful boys, of 
course, corps of them, who hate it at first ; 
but give me three lessons and I'll vouch 
for them. Usually their " best girls " are 
there to march in with, and that makes 
up a little for the curse of trying to man- 
age the right feet at the right time. I 
pounce on a timid little quitter and trail 
him around with me for a couple of after- 
noons, by which time he invariably turns 
out to be the most polished kind of a Beau 
Brummel. 

All tuition is demanded either in ad- 



248 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

vance or before the first half of the quarter 
is over. Almost never do I lose, although 
occasionally some one backs out of the 
class at the end of the second or third les- 
son and refuses to pay for more than he 
has had. I don't fuss about this, as it isn't 
worth it and "seldom happens, though the 
agreement is supposed to be for the entire 
quarter. 

Perhaps you think, after doing some 
mental arithmetic, that I ought to be rich. 
I'm not poor. I live comfortably all the 
year round, as well as during the dancing 
season, and I make all my money from my 
classes. The between time is my own. 
But if you will remember how you used 
to marvel at the gorgeous raiment of that 
old freak who taught " Fancy Dancing 
and Deportment " in our town hall you 
will readily see where a large slice of a 
dancing teacher's income goes to. Cos- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 249 

tumes? The Queen of Sheba wasn't in it 
with us ! 

Children like fringe and ribbons and 
lace and fichus and soft, dainty gowns, 
while their mamas demand them. I know 
for a fact that lots of mothers care more 
about coming to see how my dresses are 
made than to watch the progress of their 
enfants terribles. No sooner do I wear 
a stylish new costume, than presto! one 
of the wall-flower ladies has copied it. I 
do not mind in the least. It brings trade. 

Slippers are an item; and favors, too, 
for the grand assemblies which close up 
the dancing season. I do a little extra in 
the line of favors for these parties, al- 
though the pupils ordinarily provide their 
own. 

To be a successful teacher one must be 
strictly up-to-date in dancing. Whatever 
is the latest, whether it bear the igno- 



250 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

minious name of " Turkey Trot Gavotte " 
or " Pannier Waltz," must be at your — 
I started to say ringers' end but toes' end 
might be more applicable. Parents and 
children alike love to get hold of a simple 
glide or new dip, any kind of a step as 
long as it is the rage. It doesn't matter 
whether it is really new or not, if only 
they think it is. 

A new dance is a good advertisement 
for me. The children brag about it all 
over town. Only yesterday I came upon 
a group of little girls who were playing 
dancing school out on the sidewalk in 
front of one of their houses. " We will 
now learn a new dance, called the " Yankee 
Caprice,' " announced the little teacher, 
whom I recognized as one of my Saturday 
morning beginners, in exactly my tone of 
voice. " Now, look — it's step, step, glide, 
glide, glide, and a turn — " she directed, 



The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 251 

lifting up her little short skirts in imita- 
tion of me, while the others eagerly strove 
to find out with which foot to begin. 

It brought me back in a jiffy to the time 
I used to gather the whole neighborhood 
up into our old barn after school and 
dance to the tune of that squeaky grapho- 
phone, one of the very first models, I sup- 
pose. Do you remember how it always 
ran down right in the middle of every- 
thing? And, oh, say, J. K., will you ever 
forget the night we had that gypsy party, 
ten of us girls, with me for the queen, 
when that wretched brother of mine let 
loose that cask of eels? Didn't we take 
to our 'eels, though ! I had almost forgot- 
ten all about that! 

There are only four dance orders left, 
but I'll write as tiny as I can. 

Somehow, I feel as though I were lay- 
ing this profession before you best side up. 



252 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I am doing well now and I am apt to lose 
sight of the fact that it was not ever thus. 
Oh, those first days! All beginnings are 
hard, when you have not much to begin 
with. 

Luckily I had Tom. He's married now 
and big and handsome. You'd never 
know him for that scamp who kept us in 
mortal terror with his pranks. He has 
turned all his mischief into tenderness 
and solicitude, since he's grown up, and 
is the very best brother ever. 

I wanted to experiment with a dancing 
class, but didn't care to do it at home, for 
fear it might fail and make me a laughing- 
stock. Tom immediately understood and 
invited me to spend the fall and winter 
with him. This was the fall after I grad- 
uated. 

Tom and Rosalie (that's his wife's 
name, and, if his own sister does say it, 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 253 

she's been the making of Tom) — well, 
they got my first class together for me. I 
don't deserve any credit at all, except that 
I kept things going and made the arrange- 
ments. They were all married people, 
eight couples, and all knew how to dance 
but one man. He dropped out after a 
little because his silly young wife got 
jealous when I tried to teach him not to 
walk like a giraffe. These married people 
were just beyond the age of going to 
dances as a regular thing, and they simply 
revelled in our informal good times. 

Tom is popular at the club. He told 
lots of his friends about my project and 
this, together with the soliciting I did 
myself, got me a small afternoon class. 
The married class increased. The work 
was started. Little by little I branched 
out into nearby towns. Once a success, 
I felt pretty safe. 



254 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

You may wonder where I learned how 
to teach. I didn't learn how, any more 
than you or the other girls who are given 
a few quarters at dancing school as a part 
of their education learn how. I am natu- 
rally a good dancer. I knew the rudimen- 
tary steps, and could waltz, polka, two- 
step, galop, schottische, and go through 
the figures in the lanciers and Portland 
fancy. I remembered lots of the positions 
from practising them on the children in 
our old barn. For the German I chose 
simple things, peppermints or valentines 
or inexpensive, home-made favors. 

Tom, dear old thing, paid for some pri- 
vate lessons for me that winter, and I 
studied as I had never before. Occasion- 
ally, even now, I brush up with a private 
teacher. You have to keep up, for dancing 
styles change along with the clothes you 
dance in. 



The Wkat-Shall-I-Do Girl 255 

Of late years dancing has been going at 
such a pace! I wonder what the old 
Greeks would say if they could witness 
the " Bunny Hug " or the " Grizzly Bear " 
or the " Turkey Trot ! " Of course I never 
taught any of these! Dancing was an art 
in those by-gone days. Even the old- 
fashioned minuets, cotillions, and qua- 
drilles of a few generations ago bore some 
semblance to grace and beauty. But to- 
day — it's positively a degradation the 
way the boys and girls dance! I'm on my 
hobby now. Forgive me if I ride it too 
hard. 

My work isn't, as you may be led to 
suppose, all one grand party. When that 
long line stands before me on the floor 
trying to perform the " pas de quatre," it 
requires more patience than the immortal 
Job ever thought of to drive it into their 
heads, or feet, or wherever it goes. 



256 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

In bad weather, when I have to go from 
town to town, changing cars with fre- 
quent delays, the trips seem arduous, es- 
pecially when I don't feel very well and 
realize that I must stand on my feet all 
during the lessons. 

The discipline is a disagreeable factor. 
A public school teacher has the solace of 
being in a position to chastise. A dancing 
school teacher must discipline by sheer 
personality. Mindful of the fact that de- 
portment is a part of her teaching, she 
must not only be a model herself, but 
must change all the unruly, little imps 
into perfect ladies and gentlemen, sparing 
the rod whether they need it or not, and 
this with their proud mamas looking 
on, who can't do a thing with Willie at 
home ! 

Some dancing teachers employ assist- 
ants to help keep order, make the lines 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 257 

straight and find partners. I don't be- 
cause I limit my classes. 

Next year I'm planning to give up one 
of my best towns, which is too far out of 
my circle, and if you should decide to be- 
come a dancing teacher you may have it. 
The pupils are all advanced, so you 
wouldn't find it difficult, for I could give 
you all the pointers you would need. 

You could work up a class of beginners 
right there at home, I should think, if you 
cared to. You know as much about dan- 
cing as I did when I began, and you'll 
learn more than you will ever teach for 
the first few lessons. If I were you I 
should make a detour of the surrounding 
cities where there are schools already es- 
tablished and try to work in as an assist- 
ant, until I knew the ropes. 

There will be no sacrilege about dancing 
even at this sad time in your life. Con- 



258 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

sider it just business. I've danced with a 
heartache many a time. There is money 
ahead waiting for you, if you will get busy 
and organize. The rest takes care of it- 
self. 

I will gladly give you enough private 
lessons to bring you up to the new steps. 
There aren't very many and they're all 
similar. If you can manage one class you 
won't have any difficulty, for it's the same 
thing over and over. 

Miss Norton has brought me in a bite 
from a restaurant, which I must gobble 
(that is, gobble the bite, not the restau- 
rant!) before the evening class arrives. 

Don't let yourself brood, dear. Keep 
active. I'm sorry from the bottom of my 
heart for what you asked me not to men- 
tion. The future is full of good things 
for you, I feel confident, so work and 
dance and smile! 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 259 

This is the end of my last dance order. 
Turn it over and read the margin. 

(Over) 

Why pirouette through life when you 
can take Mr. S. and make him dance for 
you? It's horribly lonely after the garish 
ball! Take my word for it, dear. 

Elinor Stockton. 




MARJORIE BECOMES A BONA FIDE 
FARMER 

Baked Bean Night. 
You Poor Little Chicken: 

So you've got to scratch for yourself 

now! Then you'd better go right into the 

poultry business. You already possess 

enough grit for both yourself and the hens, 

and that is all y.ou will need except the 

260 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 261 

ability to make a mash! Mr. Tad, no 
doubt, would make affidavit that you can 
do that to perfection, but the kind of a 
mash I mean is a mixture of more or less 
wheat bran, rolled oats, molasses, alfalfa 
meal, charcoal, cornmeal, shredded wheat 
waste, meat meal, plus or minus a pound 
of poultry tonic, served wet or dry ac- 
cording to the taste. 

" I would like to see any one make 
money out of hens," whine the failures, 
who have whined the same whine about 
almost everything else they ever tried to 
do. If you should scrutinize their hen 
yards Til bet that you would find that the 
entire cash outlay had been put into the 
aristocratic habitations of the poor little 
chicks, while a cheap crop of sickly strag- 
glers, without any pedigree to crow about, 
feebly strutted around taking care of 
themselves. 



262 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Hens haven't any sense, and if the 
owner hasn't any sense either, the case is 
hopeless. No one should expect any hen, 
however well-meaning, to solve all the 
family problems herself. Do your duty by 
her and she'll lay to and reciprocate. 

What makes our great broad country 
so rich? Agriculture. "Back to the 
farm " is the slogan of the age. I echo it 
with all my heart. If only I had been a 
man! What acres and acres and herds 
and flocks and — why, I'd have been a 
millionaire in no time! As it is, I'm not 
doing so badly for just a girl, a girl with 
six handicaps. 

Why not get yourself a little hencoop 
and turn " biddy," with a little market gar- 
dening on the side? You'd be so busy that 
your mind would be occupied all the time, 
and you would soon have enough to keep 
up your home, health and happiness. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 263 

That is just it, if you want to have any- 
thing to show for this kind of work, you 
will have to put just as much mind and 
strength into it as you would in any other 
paying occupation. Nothing runs itself. 

Gardening is such a delight! I know 
almost every individual plant in ours ; and 
they all know me, or they nod as if they 
did in the early morning when I visit them. 

We specialize on asparagus and the best 
sweet corn ever grown anywhere. Oh, 
it is perfectly delicious! Its fame has 
brought us many orders from the village 
people who do not have gardens of their 
own, and they always begin to cry ahead 
for it, long before the ears are ripe. 

It is the most beautiful place, this gar- 
den of ours, full of all kinds of mysterious 
little green buds and interesting growing 
things. There are lettuce, radishes, 
onions, tomatoes, squash (summer and 



264 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

winter), carrots, parsley, rhubarb, tur- 
nips, celery, cucumbers, peas, butter- 
beans, tender, high-pole, green string- 
beans, sweet corn, asparagus, cabbages, 
beets, spinach, and potatoes, of course. 

We raise enough of everything for our- 
selves, and nearly enough of everything 
for a dozen families who buy exclusively 
of us, but we send most of the specialties 
to market. 

Blueberries abound in the pastures here, 
and I hire my little brothers to pick them 
when they are visiting me summers. 
There are also quantities of wild black- 
berries and not a few raspberries. We 
have already set out some gooseberry 
bushes, and this year are going to try our 
luck at a strawberry patch. Our idea is to 
keep up with that stale old joke by selling 
all the fresh fruit we can and canning all 
we can't. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 265 

There is great demand for home-made 
preserves, you know. This country is full 
of elderberries, which the boys bring home 
in mammoth pailfuls. You ought to see 
the calls we have for the ruby wine we 
press them into! I wish I could give you 
a little glass this minute, or else some 
raspberry cordial. It would do wonders 
to your spirits. 

Next summer we hope to add a cow to 
our household, and then we'll be bona fide 
farmers. 

To think I have written as far as this 
and not mentioned our adorable flowers! 
The whole farm looks like one great gar- 
den in summer, for dotted all over the 
place are gaily colored little rockeries and 
different shaped beds. There is a long 
strip of sweet peas, at the foot of which 
grow dainty ladies' delights. On either 
side of the path leading to the picturesque 



266 The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 

old-time front doorway bloom giant scarlet 
poppies, while clustered in among them 
a background of white sweet alyssum 
sends forth its fragrant breath. Then, of 
course, there is the same old-fashioned 
mixture which is typical of country gar- 
dens. Hardy candy-tuft, sweet-william, 
balm, foxglove, morning-glories, petunias, 
marigolds, phlox, heart's ease, mignonette, 
enormous sunny sunflowers, and, oh, yes, 
zinnias, and ever so many I can't think of 
just at present. Nasturtiums and pansies 
each have a rockery of their own. You 
would love our flowers. 

I have been so happy and contented 
since we entered into this out-of-door life 
that I am more than anxious to show up 
its opportunities to any girl who has her 
own way to make in the world and who 
loves nature. It offers so many more of 
the real enjoyments of life than can ever 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 267 

fall to the lot of those who are boxed up in 
stores or factories or offices or even school- 
rooms. 

After we moved to Lynn I suppose that 
you and all the rest of the girls thought 
that I kept right on going to school. Well, 
I didn't. Pa went into a shoe factory and 
I went with him. We kept the younger 
children in school. We lived in a tenement 
on the top floor of one of those old firetrap 
buildings which are now gradually disap- 
pearing, thank heavens ! Four long flights 
of stairs to be climbed every night when I 
got home after standing on my feet all day 
at the factory. 

I didn't stand at first. I began on piece- 
work. Pa did the same. I was quicker 
than he and earned more money. It was 
lucky I did! 

You may wonder how we children were 
so well dressed when we lived in your 



268 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

neighborhood. It was the only time in our 
lives that we were well dressed, and it 
came about through our being the bene- 
ficiaries of a life insurance policy, left by 
a great-uncle we never had seen, to be 
used for us at the discretion of Pa. Pa 
used it as soon as he could get it, and as 
long as it lasted we lived comfortably. 
But a few thousand dollars doesn't keep 
a family of eight going forever. Pa 
seemed to think it would. He never was 
very provident. I guess he couldn't help 
it. To-morrow could take care of itself, 
and nothing really mattered so long as we 
weren't really hungry and there was still 
enough tobacco left for another smoke. 

Mr. Micawber didn't have a thing on my 
Pa! Nothing turned up, however, except 
bills, which finally turned us out. Then 
came the factory, the point of least resist- 
ance. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 269 

We got along somehow, the boys and I 
doing the work between school and fac- 
tory hours. I guess you don't know what 
a hard time is, Joy. Wait until you get 
home exhausted from doing piecemeal as 
fast as you can all day, having walked 
seven brick blocks, interminable ones, to 
save a nickel, and then find you have to 
turn around and get a snatched-up, bake- 
shop dinner for eight! Tin cans and paper 
bags make the most expensive kind of a 
meal, too, though I don't know what some 
of our tired men and women who work 
and keep house at the same time would do 
without them. Canned beans and dried 
herring and baker's greasy doughnuts and 
pie, ugh ! 

This state of affairs continued for three 
years. I was promoted from one kind of 
work to another until I finally became a 
forewoman. The majority of the girls I 



270 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

worked with snubbed me because they 
thought I thought I was superior. In 
reality I envied them! They had never 
known any different existence, and were 
care-free and irresponsible for the most 
part. To them the factory was a means 
to an end. They accepted it as all they 
knew how to accept, or expected, until 
they got married. If they returned after- 
wards, it was a matter of course. They 
were used to it. Evenings found them at 
the " movies," or in cheap dance halls. 

One girl I found — a jewel — a girl like 
you and the rest of the little clique I once 
associated with. The factory was no 
place for her, either. Unfortunate circum- 
stances had likewise forced her there. She 
kept aloof from the crowd, but soon sized 
me up. We were together at all possible 
times, and she was forever dinning the 
abandoned farm idea into my head. 



The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 271 

" If we could only save enough to just 
keep from starving until we got fairly 
started," she would exclaim, " I know just 
what you and I would do, Marj ! We 
would go up to my grandfather's old place 
in New Hampshire. No one has lived 
there for quite a number of years, and the 
roof probably leaks, as the old house is all 
going to decay, but we could get it rent 
free as it legally belongs to me. It has 
been for sale for years, but it's in an out- 
of-the-way part of the village and the town 
isn't growing any, so I don't ever expect 
to get rid of it. You save every cent you 
can, and — " 

" I do and always have," I interrupted 
her quietly, " but you must choose some 
other girl to share your farm dream." 
Then I told her, for the first time, how 
every penny I could rake and scrape went 
into stockings and shoes and bread and 



272 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

butter and dentists for the five boys and 
little sister. 

" You shall go just the same! I'll do it 
alone," she cried, her sympathetic brown 
eyes filling with tears. And she did. She 
set us up in the poultry business, buying 
good healthy Barred Plymouth Rocks, 
Wyandottes and a few Reds. We bought 
the incubator the second year. Agnes in- 
sisted upon getting the best seeds on the 
market, and I do wish you could have 
seen us two girls when we first began 
gardening. We did everything except 
the ploughing! 

There were some old tools in the barn, 
rusted and bent and out-of-date, to be sure, 
but they served. We turned carpenters 
and built, or rebuilt, the dilapidated, 
weather-beaten hen houses, and repaired 
the old house itself as well as we could. 

Little by little we collected enough fur- 



The Whal-Shall-I-Do Girl 273 

niture to be decent, buying most of it at 
country auctions. At first, though, it was 
a sort of camp life and awfully cold, for 
we started in early enough to begin the 
Spring planting and the season was very 
late, I remember. We had been studying 
up all that winter before, and began very 
moderately with less than half the variety 
of things we now raise. 

You may wonder why I deserted Pa. I 
didn't. He deserted me. He married a 
widow — a factory woman, far beneath 
him, whose sole property consisted of 
three more children! To see that woman 
in poor Ma's place was too much for me. 
I left the boys with their father and took 
my little sister with Agnes and me. You 
ought to see what sturdy little legs her 
wasp-like spindleshanks have turned into. 
She is going to the village school next fall. 

This is my story, a whole history, you 



274 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

may think. It's what I did under great 
obstacles, or, to be more exact, it is what 
Agnes did, for she, brave, self-denying 
girl, went without everything to start us. 
I can truthfully say that I've done my 
share on the farm, though. 

Except for the little we had gleaned 
from books out of the library, we two 
knew practically nothing about either a 
garden or hens. But we went at it with 
the same vim that we had formerly used in 
making shoes. We had worked so hard 
that I doubt if we could have let up even 
if we had wanted to. Oh, but the change 
was refreshing! 

That first year was hard sledging. We 
did every thing we knew how to do, and 
many which we didn't. We cropped 
enough to eat, and sold a little garden 
truck and a few broilers. Eggs — it 
makes me bilious even now to think how 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 275 

many we consumed! Honestly, it is no 
more than the truth to say that we were 
ashamed to look our hens in the face! 

Farmer Thompkins, who lived next 
neighbor to us and had been a boyhood 
friend of Agnes' grandfather, agreed to 
do our ploughing. We owe him a great 
deal of our success, for he it was who 
offered to take our stuff to market when 
he took his own, and advised us to special- 
ize. We chose asparagus and sweet corn 
because they were not in his line and 'most 
everything else was. We wouldn't steal 
the dear old man's trade for worlds! 

The first time we had an order for a fowl 
Agnes and I nearly died of grief and just 
sat looking at each other for over an hour. 
Kill one of our biddies that we had petted 
and fed for so many months! We almost 
decided to go back to the factory. Finally 
we roused ourselves and decided that busi- 



276 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

ness was business, and that either our 
chicks would have to die or we would our- 
selves. So we raced up to Mr. Thomp- 
kins's, for neither of us had ever picked a 
hen. 

" We don't want to have her suffer," we 
directed, as he seized the handsome Barred 
Rock in one hand and an axe in the other. 
" Be merciful. Do be merciful ! " screamed 
Agnes. I flew out of sight around the 
shed, but she came tearing after me and 
vowed I'd have to learn how the deed was 
done. I learned, and so did she, but we 
always hire some one else to do the killing 
to this day! 

" Ha! ha! I'll learn ye how to kill yer 
chicks as merciful as I know on," roared 
the old farmer. " Jest one chop and there 
ye be," he went on; and, oh, I shall never 
forget the sight of that poor headless crea- 
ture floundering around, as long as I live. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 277 

I thought she would never die, and when 
I looked for Agnes, who had been sitting 
on the grass, I found she had fainted dead 
away! 

Do you know Farmer Thompkins told 
the whole village about the " merciful 
girls," as he called us, and the name has 
brought us lots of business, bless him. 

' You gals remind me of a city feller 
who once kept nine hens fer pets," he told 
us one day. " He went off on a fishin' trip 
for two weeks, and not wishin' to appear 
stingy to his biddies, he filled the hoppers 
with what he cal'lated was enough feed ter 
last 'em while he was gone." 

" That was kind of him," I ventured. 

"Kind of him! Lor' sakes," snorted 
Silas Thompkins, " the danged fool crit- 
ters e't so much they busted! " 

During the long winter evenings I have 
had a splendid opportunity to go on with 



278 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

my somewhat neglected education. Ag- 
nes, too, loves to read, and is remarkably 
well informed considering the slim chance 
she has had. We spend most of our time 
reading garden literature, and are making 
improvements slowly but surely. Like all 
beginners we have made, and still make, 
lots of mistakes, some of them costly to us 
and fatal to the hens. It's no easy problem 
to be a mamma to a chick, and a nurse 
and doctor into the bargain. 

Then there are fertilizers and soil and 
pests to be studied, besides incubation and 
nourishment and moulting and sowing 
and transplanting and weeding and water- 
ing, etc. (This may sound a little mixed 
up, but you will probably understand it 
just as well.) 

It is a paying business for any one who 
will work. Nothing pays without work, 
as you'll soon find out. Can't you think of 



The What-Shall-1'Do Girl 279 

some girl friend or relative who would 
start a garden with you? I'll give you 
eight hundred and seventy-five " don'ts " 
and three hundred and sixteen " do's " to 
go by. It is all I can give you, I'm sorry 
to say, except encouragement. What 
little I have to give goes into railroad 
fares for my five brothers who take turns 
coming down here to visit each summer. 

Don't be afraid because you're green at 
it. We were so green that when old 
Farmer Thompkins once jollied us with: 
" Say, girls, ain't it funny how the old hens 
know enough to pick up exactly the right 
little pieces of egg-shells they git to eat 
and match 'em into brand new shells ! " 
Agnes 'lowed 'twas! 

I smell the beans! I must stop and put 
some water into them. How time flies! 
It's supper time and my hungry family 
will soon come clamoring in with frosty 



280 The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 

appetites. Won't they growl if it isn't 
ready ! Two of the boys are here for their 
Christmas vacation, the two who didn't 
come last summer. They have made some 
skis out of old barrel staves and I can see 
them sliding down the slope of the hill 
back of our house, for I am writing you on 
the kitchen table, as the kitchen is our 
only real warm room. 

Remember me lovingly to all my old 
friends, if you please, and keep a whole lot 
of affection for the girl who mercifully 
kills her hens, and will now be merciful 
and not kill you with any more about Mar- 
jorie Benton. 

Our floors creak in a ghostly manner at 
night. I often wish there were a man in 
the house. Agnes and I never had a 
chance to meet any desirable men until we 
came here, and most of the country boys 
are either away at college or settled in 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 281 

business somewhere else. Our minister 
has his eye on Agnes. If she marries, 
everything will change for me, though she 
vows she'll enter a convent before she'll 
leave me. 

Joy, if you and I had a wishbone to pull, 
and I got the longer end, I'd wish that you 
would get under the wing of that sweet- 
heart of yours. Poor little chicken, don't 
get lost out in the world alone! 

Hens are frightfully unclean birds. The 
most attractive one I ever knew was in the 
ragged Mother Goose book I used to read 
aloud to my little brothers and baby sister. 
You'd better get acquainted with: 

" Higgledy-Piggledy, my black hen, 
She lays eggs for gentlemen; 
Sometimes nine, sometimes ten, 

Higgledy-Piggledy, my black hen! " 




FELICE WAS BORROWED TO TEND THE 
BILLINGSES' BABY 

At Home f 
After every one's asleep. 

You Sweet Thing: 

I'm engaged! Isn't it heavenly? How 

dear of you to confide in me. Sympathy 

for a mutual state of happiness must have 

282 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 283 

been the magnet which drew your 
thoughts to me. 

Oh, you dear old Silly, do not waste an- 
other minute puzzling your little brain 
about the struggling masses. Not as long 
as you have Tad, anyway. 

Remember him — I should say I did! 
He's the dearest (don't know how well 
Charles would like to see this, nor just how 
you will take it, but I repeat) he's the 
dearest boy in the whole world except 
Charles. I always call him " Charles," 
because that's his name. It sounds so 
much more dignified and manly than 
" Charlie," and, besides, every one else 
calls him that. " Charles " is distinctive 
and has a certain character, don't you 
think so? 

Well, Tad (of course a nickname is all 
right in a case like Tad's, when we've 
never heard him called anything else, 



284 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

though I must say " Thaddeus " has a 
classical air about it) Tad went to college 
with Charles. Didn't he ever tell you? 
You just ask him what he knows about 
Charles Spaulding, and he will tell you 
that he's the cleverest, handsomest, most 
lovable man in the universe. Just ask him, 
if you think I'm prejudiced. 

Charles says, — you mustn't mind if I 
have told him just a little about you. We 
are always going to tell each other every- 
thing. Don't think I broke faith with you, 
because to tell me is to tell him, and to tell 
him is to tell me — it's the very same 
thing either way. You needn't worry, 
for he can keep a secret even better 
than I! 

Charles says, and really he has great 
judgment for a person of his age, " you 
write Joy to-morrow and tell her she won't 
make any mistake if she marries Sears. I 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 285 

know him through and through. He's a 
fine, clean fellow, straight as a die." Those 
were his very words, for I copied them 
down as soon as they were out of his 
mouth so as to give you exactly what he 
said. He ought to know, too, because he 
was associated with Tad a lot, although 
a year ahead of him, and accordingly older 
and more experienced. 

Charles has just gone home. It's aw- 
fully late, an hour past the regular time; 
but then we spent over an hour talking 
about you and had to make it up. The 
door squeaked horribly, and I was afraid 
he'd wake everybody up. As I tiptoed 
back to the library I could hear serene, 
sonorous snores from above, which as- 
sured me that all's quiet on the Potomac. 
Aren't such escapes harrowing! I'm 
quaking yet. My father said that the next 
time Charles stayed after half-past ten, 



286 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

he'd have to lose a whole evening. And he 
only comes twice a week! 

I have taken you into my confidence, 
also, for you are the only one outside the 
family to hear about my being engaged, 
though I guess some others have sus- 
pected. Charles and I have decided not to 
announce it until he can get another raise, 
which he is going to strike for in about 
five months. I don't like to have too long 
a time elapse between the diamond ring 
and the wonderful plain gold band. 

I don't know whether I make it strong 
enough or not, but both of us think you 
will be very foolish if you don't solve your 
life problem by marrying Tad. How can 
you help it? He's so nice! You couldn't 
find a better husband unless you should 
steal Charles away from me, and there 
would be a great big obstacle in the way 
of doing that, namely, me! 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 287 

Now that I have disposed of you sanely, 
I'll try to be of what little use I can to you, 
which won't be much, I fear. 

Like you, I once had a longing to go 
forth and seek my fortune. Like you, too, 
dear Joy, I've had to give up any ambi- 
tions I might have had and stay at home 
and help. Mother needed me. I was the 
only daughter, again like you. My mother 
never was very strong, and father pointed 
out that, although his salary wasn't very 
large it was large enough to take care of 
the three of us as it had always done, and 
that the greatest assistance I could be to 
the family was to assist her with the 
housework. 

To be a teacher of domestic science was 
what I aspired to, but a college course was 
out of the question. Even if my parents 
had been able to strain a point and send 
me to an ordinary business school, they 



288 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

showed me how the little I would earn the 
first year or two would be eaten up by 
fares and lunches. 

The first year or two — ah, would I 
be working longer than that, anyway? 
Charles was coming to see me even then. 
We had a kind of understanding. Father 
was watching me narrowly, but he broke 
in, in an off-hand sort of way, by saying, 
" You may marry, my dear, and when my 
girl accepts a man's protection I want her 
to be able to give his home decent care in 
return. You better stay right home with 
your mother and learn all you can out in 
the kitchen. You will never regret it. 
Besides, mother is growing feeble — " 

That settled it, that word "feeble." I 
gave up my cherished hopes, half cher- 
ished, I admit, of learning the theory of 
domestic arts by plunging right into prac- 
tice. You just ought to taste one of my 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 289 

parsley omelets, with a fluffy little biscuit 
" like mother used to make." Til vouch 
that Charles will never taunt me with 
that! 

Even at that stage I told Charles every- 
thing. I related all that my father had 
said, not about my getting married, but 
about the housekeeping part of it. 
Charles entirely agreed. Men always 
back each other up! Charles even went 
so far as to say that he would never have 
consented to my going to work, anyway. 
Imagine it! He assumed a proprietorship 
over me from the beginning. They all do 
it, these men; it's a part of their make-up. 
So you mustn't resent whatever Tad may 
have said to you, which you suggested in 
your postscript. 

For some time, until the novelty wore 
off, I was quite happy learning to be a 
maid of all work. Mother picked up con- 



290 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

siderably, while father came home every 
evening in so contented a frame of mind 
that it seemed as if the wisest thing had 
been done. I was supplied with neat, 
short - sleeved, Dutch - neck morning 
dresses, over which I wore chic kitchen 
aprons with dainty little bibs adorned 
with simple edging. 

I went about the house, singing gaily at 
my work, and feeling very domestic and 
important. I insisted upon beginning by 
doing everything, which reduced mother 
to dusting and mending and taking life 
easy for the first time in her life. She de- 
murred a little, and finally gave in with an 
amused sort of a smile which seemed to 
say " you'll get sick of it! " 

Chief cook and bottle washer, yes, and 
ironer, and bed maker, and cleaner, was I; 
and, one day, when our wash-lady dis- 
appointed us and mother was out calling, 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 291 

I hardened my muscles at the tubs. 
Mother was furious when she saw that 
line full of clothes, and said I should never 
do it again; it was too hard work; she'd 
put her foot right down. 

" But, mother," I objected, " didn't you 
used to do your own washing when you 
were first married? You've always said 
you had rather a hard time to manage in 
those early days. You couldn't afford to 
hire help, could you? If it wasn't too hard 
for you, why should it be for me? Sup- 
pose I should marry a man who couldn't 
provide either a hired girl or a washer- 
woman, wouldn't it be just as well to 
know how? " 

" You never shall marry such a person," 
she declared vehemently, and then set 
about showing me how to make starch 
that wasn't lumpy. 

That night she and father agreed at the 



292 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

supper table that as long as I was doing 
all of the work I should have some of the 
pay (they called it an allowance) at least, 
the same amount that they had formerly 
paid to outside help. The washing and 
scrubbing had cost a dollar and a half a 
week, and even then mother had ironed 
all the plain clothes and some of the fine, 
fussy ones. The woman was a nuisance, 
showing up regularly not oftener than 
three times a year, and only coming at all 
when she felt like it or needed the money 
especially bad. The clothes always 
soaked themselves clean before she ar- 
rived, and she kept mother in a constant 
fret of anticipation. 

Father said he could give me three dol- 
lars a week, while he didn't have to pay 
Mrs. O'Malley, but that out of it I must 
buy all my clothes and keep a little for 
spending money. He was very generous, 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 293 

at that, considering his meagre salary and 
the many demands upon it. 

As a young girl I had never had much 
pin money. One hundred and fifty-six 
dollars a year seemed vast wealth to me. 
I knew at the rate I had been accustomed 
to that I could dress on less than half of it, 
and oh, it was such a glorious feeling not 
to have to complain every time I needed 
a pair of new shoes! I just went out and 
bought them and didn't have to worry 
anybody. 

Mother tactfully suggested that I put 
away a part of each week's pay towards a 
new winter suit, so that when the time 
came I would have a lump sum. She in- 
formed me that that was the way she had 
always bought all of our clothes, by saving 
a little regularly from week to week of 
what father gave her to run the house. 
We didn't have accounts at the stores. 



294 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

We couldn't afford it. We paid cash or 
went without. It was a wonderful ex- 
ample. I never had any inclination to 
squander my money. I knew the value of 
it too well. 

How proud I was when I got my first 
bank-book! The first entry of five dollars 
looked mighty big to me, and I was so 
happy to think that I had earned it myself. 
I saved regularly out of my small earn- 
ings, though it seemed as if I never would 
get beyond the two figure mark, and I 
never was troubled about worrying over 
how the interest should be spent! 

Housekeeping, cooking, sewing, all 
home arts came naturally to me. With 
mother to teach me, I made practically 
everything except my coats and tailored 
suits. Ever since I was old enough to play 
dust I've known how to do little things 
around the house. This training made 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 295 

the work of our family of three very easy. 
We lived simply, healthfully and comfort- 
ably. I soon did it all up and had plenty 
of spare time. 

Charles came regularly and took an in- 
terest in everything I did. He used to 
stay to tea, quite often, and the dear boy 
would smack his lips over my dainty 
desserts, vowing he had always hated 
them until he tasted mine. It was a com- 
fort to know that as soon as he could take 
care of me I could take care of him. 

Like all girls I wanted to take with me 
to my new home plenty of linen for my 
table and beds, and, although I never 
cared to have an elaborate trousseau, I 
wanted enough simple, well-made clothes 
to last me at least a year. I started a 
Hope Box, not a cedar one, to be sure, but 
a roomy pine box with a lid attached by 
little brass hinges and covered with gay 



296 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

pink and white chintz by yours truly, up- 
holsterer. 

The little I had in the savings bank I 
was determined should stay there. I knew 
that father couldn't give me any dowry, 
for he was already giving me all that he 
could afford. Somehow the idea of being 
utterly penniless when I married was ab- 
horrent, not that I doubted Charles' gen- 
erosity or nice way of providing me with 
necessary money. I guess it's instinctive 
with women to hate the idea of asking 
their husbands for money. Suppose 
Charles were forgetful and I had to re- 
mind him! I wouldn't ever do it until I 
had to. That little nest egg in the bank 
should fortify me. Of course I don't 
really expect to have to use it in the way 
I've intimated, perhaps unjustly, but it 
will be nice to be able to buy Charles an 
occasional birthday or Christmas present 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 297 

which won't be coming right out of his 
own pocket after we're married. It is a 
nice comfortable feeling, anyway, to know 
that it's there, and all mine. You'd think 
I was talking about a fortune, wouldn't 
you? 

What could I do with my spare time? 
How could I turn it into a little extra 
money without interfering with my home 
duties? A boy could sell papers and run 
errands and mow lawns and shovel paths 
and take care of furnaces and do loads of 
things. What could a girl do? 

Miss Joy Kent, here's what I did, and 
I'm some proud of myself: I organized a 
sewing class for the little girls of busy 
mothers, and taught them how to darn 
their stockings, make neat little patches, 
hem v dish-towels, and right now they are 
working on some little flannel petticoats 
for themselves. 



298 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I became a baby tender, so that tired 
young mothers could have an occasional 
outing, and now the demand for bebabied 
couples to go to the theatre is so great that 
all my evenings are taken up except the 
two that Charles comes, Wednesdays and 
Sundays. 

I read to old ladies and sick folks and 
did their shopping in the city, when they 
had no one else to send. 

These four simple ways have supplied 
me with an enviable Hope Box, and have 
been easy and pleasant. Perhaps you will 
wonder how I happened to strike on them. 
Accidents, all of them. Mother is terribly 
obliging, and though she never borrows, 
she lends almost every day of her life to 
our various kindly neighbors. Our house 
is a sort of a neighborhood accommoda- 
tion. 

One day young Mrs. Billings, who lives 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 299 

just around the corner, came over to bor- 
row me. " Ever since baby came Mr. Bill- 
ings and I can never go out together/' she 
explained. " To-night my people are go- 
ing to hold a family reunion, and I do 
want to go so dreadfully. I had planned 
to leave baby with the lady upstairs, but 
she's not feeling well. Of course I don't 
dare trust him with strangers. Would 
you mind — I would be so grateful ! He'll 
sleep all the evening, probably, until we 
get home, and you'd just have to sit 
in the hammock or do anything you 
pleased." 

I went, and mother sent Charles over to 
the Billingses' as it was Wednesday. 
How that baby howled! Good little 
thing! I finally had to send Charles home 
and make a business of tending to him. 
Then he went to sleep immediately! I 
promised Charles it should never happen 



300 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

on his night again. Oh, Joy, I was so em- 
barrassed! 

The Billingses were very late. They 
tried to make me spend the night, but I 
wouldn't on account of breakfast. They 
were very grateful and acted as though I 
had done a heroic thing. Mr. Billings in- 
sisted upon taking me home and showed 
his gratitude by presenting me with a two- 
pound box of delicious chocolates, saying 
that he hesitated to offer me money, but 
would I accept the candy. 

It wasn't a week before Mrs. Billings 
showed up again. This time she insisted 
upon paying for what she called such an 
obligation, and we agreed upon seventy- 
five cents per evening. It was easy money, 
for, after that first time, the baby seldom 
was heard from. I could read or sew or 
have one of the girls over. The good news 
spread among Mrs. Billings' married 



The What-Shall-1-Do Girl 301 

friends and I was soon in great popu- 
larity. 

The shopping trips came from an in- 
spiration I had from old Granny Parks, 
one day when I was reading the Bible to 
her. I always read to Granny once a week, 
and I'm glad to do it as it's one of the poor 
bedridden old lady's few pleasures. She 
seldom buys anything new, but when she 
does I always get it for her. You ought 
to see the sweet, smiling, secretive way 
Granny tucks something into my hand for 
doing her errands, and mother told me 
always to take it so as not to offend the 
dear good soul. 

Why couldn't I shop for other invalids, 
or people too busy to do it themselves? 
I dropped a few suggestions here and 
there among my friends, who told others, 
until finally I began to have to devote 
about one day a week to it, on the average. 



302 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

Mother has to get her own lunch on those 
days. Then I was asked to read to a man 
sick with rheumatism. He pays me fifty 
cents for two hours, but I don't mind 
taking it because he has lots of money. 

Where folks buy a lot of things I charge 
a commission, but if they want just a few 
fussy articles, like matching materials, I 
ask a reasonable amount for my time. 
They always pay my fares. Few com- 
plaints arise, but I do receive a great many 
compliments about my good taste, such as, 
" Why, that's exactly what I should have 
bought myself. It's just what I wanted." 
I do try to please and get what I would 
select for my very own self. It's a good 
business to work up, that is, for any girl 
with a knowledge of the value of money. 
People tell me that I can buy things, plus 
my commission, cheaper than they can get 
them for themselves. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 303 

The sewing class grew out of an expres- 
sion dropped by a mother of seven, the 
busiest woman I know. " How thankful 
I shall be," she sighed, " when the neces- 
sity of teaching domestic science pene- 
trates the numskulls on our school-board. 
All the cities around us have that course. 
I don't see why this town is so backward. 
If my girls could only darn their own 
stockings it would be such a help; but, 
there, I haven't time to teach them prop- 
erly." 

Here was my chance. I had the time. 
Enter my class, the following Friday after 
school, with three of the busy woman's 
little girls and four of their young friends, 
at twenty-five cents each, or fifteen cents 
where there are more than one in a family. 
The class has increased to fourteen now, 
and it's a real satisfaction to see how in- 
terested they are in their little workbags. 



304 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

It is very simple. Any girl who under- 
stands plain sewing can show others how 
to baste and hem and overcast and back 
stitch and run and gather and darn neatly. 
She needn't be a tailor or dressmaker or 
anything of the kind. But all girls ought 
to know how to mend. 

We are going to have a parents' exhibi- 
tion in a couple of weeks and there will be 
a grand display of towels, pillow slips, 
aprons, flannel petticoats, artistically 
matched patches on difficult plaids and 
mathematical darns, which couldn't hurt 
anybody's feet. 

None of this may seem feasible to you. 
Certainly it will not appeal as a " life 
work." But your life work is going to be 
Tad, I feel sure, and this may help fill up 
your Hope Box, unless it's already full. 
It's an easy means to an end, and one you 
can pick up right now there at home if you 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 305 

want to, though, of course, you'd have to 
go to live with some one. 

If one must be a neighborhood girl, con- 
ferring favors all the time, why not profit 
by it? People are just as grateful and feel 
twice as willing to call on you if they are 
left under no obligations. It works both 
ways, you know. 

Charles would send his very kindest re- 
gards if he were here. Remember what he 
said about Tad. If I were you I would do 
exactly as Charles advised, and, somehow, 
under the circumstances, I don't think I 
should wait for any old Hope Box or trous- 
seau. 

The top of the marnin' to yez, dearie, 
it's already Thursday! Now I must sneak 
up to bed. 

Yours for love and work, but not for 
work alone, 

Felice. 



\ 




SIMPLY SALESPERSON 1195 

Dear Miss with the Happy Name: 

Don't be frightened. This ain't no 
blackhand letter. 

Maisie says I hadn't oughter go butting 
in on you like this, 'cause tain't none of 
my business, and maybe she's right; but 
I've just got to. 

306 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 307 

" I'm going to put that poor little 
ascairt thing next," I says to Maisie — 
Maisie's my understudy in the dolls — as 
we was hanging on to the straps in our 
crowded car last night. 

" How d'you know but she's one of them 
highbrows what considers it lowering for 
a girl to earn her honest living behind the 
counter?" growls Maisie, who was ter- 
rible grouchy for her, 'cause she had to 
stand up and her shoes pinched. " Maybe 
she don't want to get wise to no little 
mean jobs like us girls started on." 

" She's got to begin somewhere, ain't 
she," I blurts out, kind of savage like, 
" and perhaps she ain't on to the fack that 
plenty of ladies, just as good as she is — 
anyway, it can't do no harm to show her 
how she's got one chanct, even if she isn't 
fit for anything." 

" Betcher any money she don't do noth- 



308 The What-Shatt-I-Do Girl 

ing after all," mumbles Maisie, shifting her 
weight on to one foot and me. " You c'n 
take my word for it — why, if I was her 
I'd be picking out my troosow." 

After she got off the car I sat thinking 
about you so hard that I clean forgot my 
street and got carried two blocks past. I 
didn't mind none, though, 'cause I was 
planning this letter all the way back. 

You don't know who I am, and ain't 
likely to, for that matter, so don't pay no 
attention to anything I may say if you 
don't like it. It's just my way. If I was 
a millionairess I'd give away libraries 
with my name on a marble slab in front, 
and have a floating hospital day named 
after me, and do lots of other great iillan- 
thropies; but slong as I'm just a poor 
working girl I have to get even with my 
conshunts by doing the little things that 
cross my path, like helping you. 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 309 

I'm just busting with facks, and you can 
play they didn't come from no one but just 
fell straight out of the blue sky. Who is 
writing don't make no diffrunce. And 
even if you should ast my name I'd have 
to think some time before I could remem- 
ber it. I've gone so many years as simply 
salesperson 1195 that I can't hardly beleve 
I was ever christened anything else. 

Course you're wondering how I happen 
to be on the inside of you, so to speak, so 
I'll put you right to ease by stating here 
that I ain't a lady detective. 

The car done it — the car and them two 
handsome friends of yourn who was talk- 
ing you over pretty loud. Dead stuck on 
you they was, too, and each a-swapping 
what they was going to advise you till I 
couldn't stand it no longer, listening to 
their highferlootin' notions about the 
working world. It was then I seen my 



310 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

duty and speiled it. off to Maisie, who said 
Td get no thanks for my pains. But I 
ain't looking for thanks, and told her so. 
It's my little charity, 'cause I knowed you 
could get along just like me and Maisie 
and Geraldine done. 

Don't think we was evesdropping — we 
just couldn't help hearing. You know 
how tis on cars when you're tired and 
ain't thinking of nothing and folks will 
raise their voices above the rumbling to 
the same pitch that noosies calls out ex- 
tras. First we was just curious; then aw- 
ful interested. I pitied you fierce. 

" Wisht I could talk to that girl they're 
gasing about," I whispers to Maisie. " If 
I only knowed who she was and where 
she hung out — " And just then, as if 
answering my very thoughts, one of them 
young ladies sitting under our straps, 
pikes up with: "No, Joy Kent doesn't 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 311 

know much about the world. She's al- 
ways lived in Maywood, you know." So 
I had you, see? — beautiful happy name, 
and address and all! 

Dear suffering Sister, don't be ascairt of 
the great big world. It won't bite you. 
The working class that your friends said 
they hoped you wouldn't get in amongst, 
is the finest people they is, and with the 
biggest hearts. I'd oughter know because 
I've been in it ever since — well, ever since 
the age the law allows, and a year earlier, 
confidentshul between us, as I was made 
to lie about it to get the job, not by my 
parents, 'cause that was long after I didn't 
have any and had been put out to board 
with Mrs. Maloney by some relations who 
didn't want me round. 

Oh, yes, I seen the world when I wasn't 
much bigger than the dolls I'm selling 
to-day. My name was cash then. But 



312 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I tried so hard, and never was late 'cept 
when the cars was blocked with snow or 
something, and never sneaked nothing by 
the time-desk, and took an interest and 
done my level best until my tally sheets 
beat all the others in my department, so 
that the buyer noticed I was a valuable 
salesperson, and I kept risen, little at a 
time, till now I'm going to be made a head 
of stock! 

Maybe that ain't some jump from a 
cash, and in a store where they's more 
employees than they was folks in the 
whole town where I was raised in! We 
alius have at least three thousand help, 
even in dull times, counting both our mam- 
moth buildings; and four at special sales, 
and Christmas — the worst time in the 
year — they's as many as five thousand 
drawing their pay outen this one firm. 
Ain't it 'normous! 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 313 

If I'd had some genuwine education and 
a little more manners, natural manners, 
like a real lady has, you know, I'd have 
been a buyer by this time, I bet. Miss 
McGraw, she's our buyer, was only a sales 
for six years, and her record card couldn't 
hold a candle to mine either. But she had 
the drop on me for education, though I'm 
improving myself every chanct I get and 
you'd oughter see what a diffrunce they is 
in me now from what I was when I first 
entered the store. When I did go to the 
district school I was alius ascairt to death 
of the truant officer, 'cause I had to stay 
out and mind the Maloney babies more 
than half the time. 

But, as I told Maisie to-day in the lunch- 
room (they is one, you know, for em- 
ployees where you can buy eats real cheap, 
or bring your own and sit down at the 
long empty tables for nothing), " I tell 



314 The What-Shall-I~Do Girl 

you, Maisie," I says, " if that girl is as up 
and coming as her swell friends I bet she 
could be in a class with me, head of stock, 
or a buyer, or a teacher in the salesman- 
ship school in no time, if she's got the 
gumps." 

Maisie makes me hopping mad. " Any 
girl," she says, " that's got the ghost of a 
chanct to get married is a fool to work 
anywheres for anybody." That's just the 
trouble with Maisie. She ain't got no am- 
bishon. Why, she's been in the dolls so 
long that she ain't got no more brains 
than's if her head was china. 

" Feeonsays is all right," I answers her, 
" but 'twould be butting in too much to 
give a strange girl advice about having 
one, especially when you ain't never seen 
the gentleman, or her neither, for that 
matter. Us girls has to decide them 
things for ourselves, just as I did when 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 315 

that candy-kid of a floor-walker was doing 
his best to shine up to me. Didn't all you 
girls try to sic me on him, but I wouldn't 
sic, would I, in spite of all your free-for- 
nothing hints? And him a married man, 
too, as it turned out! No, sir, I don't butt 
in on no love affairs." 

Work is diffrunt. I'm right to home 
there, and wouldn't be afraid of tossing 
the lingo to the Queen of Holland if she 
had to come down to earning her living on 
her two feet behind a mess of goods. 

I alius had a great pashun for dolls, 
probably because I never had a real one in 
my life until Rosabel. I broke her, at least 
they claimed I did, though, honest to good- 
ness, some one knocked her outen my arms 
during one fierce Christmas jam. They 
let me have the pieces, after she was taken 
out of my pay, but T never could find one 
of her eyes, though I hunted and hunted. 



316 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

I took her home and glued her up, and 
as long as you don't know me, and never 
will, I'll tell you in confidunce that I slep 
with that doll for more'n two years. 
Sometimes I lay her on my pillow, even 
now, old as I am, when it's dreadful lone- 
some and scary and I'm too tired to 
sleep. 

Toys is a good department, though, of 
course, 'cepting for the holiday season, the 
every day sales ain't so big as in some of 
the other lines. But I just wanted to be 
among the little play dishes and teddy 
bears and games and dolls, so when the 
superintendent says to me, " What do you 
think you could sell?" (I had the gall, 
small as I was and lying about my age, 
to ask for a salesgirl's job) I pipes right 
up with: "I can sell anything, Mister, 
specially fish-ponds and baby dolls and 
harmonikurs and Noah's arks." Then 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 317 

he says, " Nothing doing. You're too 
young." And I lied like everything, the 
way Mrs. Maloney told me, and begged 
till he put me in the toys as cash, and said 
real kindlike that maybe I'd be selling 
them next year. I did, you bet. 

I s'pose all this stuff about me is drier'n 
turnips to you, and, anyway, you wouldn't 
have to start so low down as being a cash 
or even an inspector. 

I'll tell you what you can do if you ain't 
too proud and want to bad enough, and 
goodness knows it ain't no disgrace to earn 
an honest living in a department store! 
Take 651 for a sample. She's in the cut 
glass. That girl has made herself invalu- 
able to the firm. She handles all the or- 
ders for the swells. Her sales mount up 
to thousands of dollars a year. She told 
me herself that she'd been to the public 
library and read up all she could find about 



318 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

the diffrunt patterns so's she'd know just 
what to select for her rich customers. She 
buys now, and has been down to New 
York for new stock two times already. A 
few years ago she was drawing her six 
dollars a week, plus one per cent, commis- 
shun! 

Then look at Miss Shaunessy — a sales- 
person up to last June, when she was 
transferred to teach in the school for 
salesmanship, where they say she gets 
more salary than those fine educated 
teachers in the city schools. 

Did you know that lots of the biggest 
department stores have salesmanship 
classes right in their buildings and let 
their employees learn how to sell free of 
charge? Us girls used to spend a whole 
hour and a half out of the working day, 
and we weren't docked for it neither. Can 
you beat it? 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 319 

The hardest part about being a sales- 
person is that you've got to smile at every 
customer no matter how hard it's raining 
outside when you've left your umbrella at 
home, nor how your feet is aching, nor 
who's sick where you live, nor how fussy 
and unreasonable the purchaser may be. 
He's the " boss " — way above even the 
superintendent and all the floor-walkers 
in Christendom. You've got to tody to 
the customer, first, last, and alius. 

You've got to be on time and neat and 
polite and keep your hair tidy and your 
finger nails manicured and be brisk and 
know everything that's on your counter 
and keep it slicked up. You got to be 
courteous to every one and careful to men- 
tion the denomination of every bill they 
hand you. 

If you buy anything in the store for 
yourself, outside of the first hour in the 



320 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

morning which is allowed for the shop- 
ping of employees, maybe at noontime, 
you got to wear your street clothes and 
let some other salesperson do it up for you. 
All bundles has to be left at the time-desk. 
Any violation of this rule is cause for in- 
stant dismissal! 

I know one girl on the corsets as lost 
her job because her gentleman friend 
brought her in a birthday present of an 
elegant alligator wristbag, done up in a 
plain white box, and she didn't call the 
floor superintendent at once for him to 
sign and send to the time-desk, but tucked 
it under her counter and tried to carry it 
out at night without bothering. But she 
hadn't oughter done it, though I felt awful 
sorry for her. 

Then there's fines for making out 
bundle tickets wrong, and not deducting 
credits from sales. A girl has to watch 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 321 

pretty careful, but if she tends to business 
there ain't no need of fines. 

But you'll get all this in the printed 
rules you has to learn off by heart. 
They're dreadful strict, but I guess they 
has to be considering all us thousands of 
employees. 

You'll meet most every kind of a girl 
they is working in a big city department 
store. A good many live at home and 
have all they earn to put on their backs. 
Piles are like me and have to entirely sup- 
port theirselves on what they get. You've 
probably noticed some salesladies who rig 
up in duds that's classy enough to put the 
swell customers themselves to shame. I 
never could see how a girl could earn a 
dollar or a dollar and a quarter a day and 
wear fifteen-dollar ostrich plumes on her 
sporty lid that she wears for common to 
work in, as some do. I alius feels bad in- 



322 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

side when I see a cheap little salesperson 
swaggering round with diamond rings 
like a ristocrat, while she demonstrates a 
new dime gellatine in the grocery annex 
or nineteen-cent hose! There's something 
wrong somewhere and I think it's a 
shame! 

Course I don't blame any girl for want- 
ing pretty things. I do myself, but I'd 
rather 'conomize and wear my little faded 
ribbons and bare hands without any rings 
than to lose my self-respect. A girl can 
get along and be decent on what she earns 
if she has a little sense about spending her 
money. But she can't have things like 
rich folks. She's got to pretend she ain't 
interested in fine clothes, and stop long- 
ing to wear the fluffy-ruffled silk petticoats 
she sells, and put her mind on to making 
herself worth more so the firm'll increase 
her salary. If she has any kind of a home 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 323 

she can do it easy. It's a jigsaw puzzle for 
us that ain't! 

They is stores, right in this city, as is 
awful mean to their help. I pity the girls. 
But it ain't so bad as it used to be, Miss 
Gugenheim says, and she was working 
before I was born. She's seen the time 
when they want no such law as they is 
now regulating the number of hours a girl 
should work. And she says they's going 
to be a " minernum wage," which won't 
allow no store to pay its help less than a 
certain sum. Won't that be grand if they 
make it as high as our store, and fierce if 
they put it down to what Maisie got where 
she worked first! But it's coming. Miss 
Gugenheim says she heard Mr. Brock, he 
hires us girls, and another man talking it 
over. 

If you go after a job, pick out the big- 
gest department stores with the best repu- 



324 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

tations, 'cause, honest, the way employees 
is treated does leak out. I'd never think 
of applying at Nixon & Jenkins, for in- 
stance. Every one knows they're mean. 
Take a reliable store, maybe sometime 
when they's an advertisement in the news- 
papers for " salespersons wanted." There 
usually is. 

Notice how many that applies when you 
do gets turned away. You can tell by 
their faces when they come out of the 
Super's office. I seen hundreds, and just 
because they show right off they'd be 



" loafers " and never do nothing but 
lounge on the counter and gossip. You 
got to make a good bluff to Mr. Brock and 
not gawk like an idiot and say " I dunno " 
to everything. 

Show him you've got the spice and the 
ambish and need the job and want to get 
ahead and ain't taking it just as a make- 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 325 

shift and don't feel too good to be doing 
it. Tell him you want a chanct, and you'll 
work up yourself, and you'll get it. 

Ability is what they're looking for, and 
you can just take it from me you've got 
to have some of it to keep your job behind 
the counter. Faithful service isn't in it 
with push. Look at poor Miss Gugen- 
heim, as I was just telling you of. Her 
hair was gold, she says, when she come 
here; now it's snow white, and her getting 
just the same! She never expects any 
more, and she probably ain't worth it to 
the firm. She's steady and keeps her job, 
along with hundreds of other faithful 
fossils that never had it in them to get 
ahead any but just stay on years and years 
till they ain't any good. Some stores 
would discharge them for young help, but 
my firm is awful fair. 

It's the salesbooks that shows up what's 



326 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

in you. Naturally a girl selling pins and 
needles and small wares can't total up 
what a girl in the suit or jewelry depart- 
ment can, but she can make her sales aver- 
age just a little more than any other per- 
son on the same counter. The minute she 
does that she's a valuable salesperson. 

The gloves would be a dandy depart- 
ment for you to begin on, or, maybe china. 
You might get as high as eight dollars to 
start, or less with a small per cent, com- 
misshun, depending upon your line. Your 
record will be carefully watched for one 
year, and if you go above the average of 
your department, as I was saying, your 
buyer will spot you and you'll be advanced 
without striking for more pay yourself. 
That's the way they do business here, any- 
way. 

I never wrote such a long letter before 
in all my life. It beats a sermon, don't it? 



The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 327 

I done it all by myself 'cept I ast the little 
stenog across the hall to sprinkle in the 
punkchuashnn and correck the spelling. 

If you'll please excuse me now I think 
I'll go to bed, 'cause I have to get up at 
six (I get my own breakfasts in my room). 
Besides Rosabel looks kind of sleepy out 
of her good eye. 

Do you know, I often wish Rosabel was 
real when I see her lying there on the 
pillow beside me. It's fierce not having 
any one to love when you get home tired 
at night. 

Can't I say this to you, just as one girl 
who knows how it feels to be down and 
out to another, that I wisht with all my 
heart you might never know nothing in 
life but what your mother named you 
when you was a little baby? That's what 
she meant when she called you " Joy " I'm 
sure. But then you'd have to keep out of 



328 The What- Shall- 1 -Do Girl 

a department store, cept maybe to buy 
your wedding clothes and things for the 
flat. 

Excuse me for butting in. Maisie said 
I hadn't oughter, and perhaps she's right. 
Anyway, I send this along because I got 
to, hoping it may do some good. 

You'd better think twict, my little prote- 
shay, before you give up that beautiful 
happy name of yourn for just a convict 
number like 

Yours truly, 

Salesperson 1195. 




A NIGHT LETTER 



To Miss Joy Kent, 
25 Linden Road, 
Maywood, Mass, 



Jan. 6. 



Firm has ordered me to go West. 

Leave to-morrow at 8.30 p. m. For the 

last time, will you go with me? Wire 

office. 

Tad. 

329 




JOY FINDS HER PLACE IN THE 
WONDERFUL WORLD 

Daybreak, Jan. ph. 

Dearest Girl: 

I'm side-tracked and wildly excited! 

We leave for Seattle to-night. Tad 
says he has had the license in his pocket 
for a week ! 

330 



The What-ShaU-I-Do Girl 331 

You and the other girls, to each of 
whom I'm sending a copy of this letter, 
responded in splendid fashion, and I thank 
you with all my heart for your part in help- 
ing me make up my mind about what I 
should do. Somehow the beaten path 
looks more inviting than the trackless way 
you self-made wonders have dared to 
traverse. 

After all, I am following your ad- 
vice, the first advice I ever took in my 
life! 

Congratulate me and pray for Tad. 
Gratefully ever, 

Joy Kent. 

P. S. I can't bear to think of your work- 
ing so hard out there in that dreadful 
world. Can't you scare up a nice young 
man like Tad? I have discovered my 
place, and am so happy I want you to be, 



332 The What-Shall-I-Do Girl 

too. Take my heartfelt advice and follow 
the girl who, but a week ago, was crying 
to you, " Oh, what shall I do?" and has 
now found out. 

Joy. 



THE END. 



(C83»C8K83C8S^aiMSSS»SSK8S^aOS£&0»»»a 



w 



PO LLYANNA 



"it, 3</ Eleanor H. Porter 

Author of " Miss Billy," " Miss Billy's Decision," etc. 




1 2 mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, net $1.25 ; postpaid $1.40 



" Enter Pollyanna! She is the daintiest, dearest, most 
irresistible maid you have met in all your joumeyings through 
Bookland. And you forget she is a story girl, for Pollyanna 
is so real that after your first introduction you will feel the 
inner circle of your friends has admitted a new member. A 
brave, winsome, modern American girl, Pollyanna walks into 
print to take her place in the hearts of all members of the 
family." 



Of " Miss Billy " the critics have writ! en as follows: 

" To say of any story that it makes the reader's heart feel warm and 
happy is to pay it praise of sorts, undoubtedly. Well, that's the very praise 
one gives ' Miss Billy.' " — Edwin L. Shuman in the Chicago Record-Herald. 

" The story is delightful and as for Billy herself — she's all right! " — 
Philadelphia Press. 

" There is a fine humor in the book, some good revelation of character 
and plenty of romance of the most unusual order." — The Philadelphia 
Inquirer. 

" There is something altogether fascinating about ' Miss Billy,' some 
inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to demand the individual 
attention of the reader from the moment we open the book until we reluc- 
tantly turn the last page." — Boston Transcript. 

" The book is a wholesome story, as fresh in tone as it is graceful in ex- 
pression, and one may predict for it a wide audience." — Philadelphia Pub- 
l&er. 

•' Miss Billy is so carefree, so original and charming, that she lives in the 
reader's memory long after the book has been laid aside." — Boston Globe. 

" You cannot help but love dear ' Billy; ' she is winsome and attractive 
and you will be only too glad to introduce her to your friends." — Brooklyn 
Eagle. 



Si/ Mrs. Henry W. Backus 



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A big and purposeful story interwoven about the respon- 
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hospital, had allowed himself to drift away from the stand- 
ards of his youth in his desire for wealth and social and scien- 
tific prestige. When an expose of the methods employed by 
him in furthering his schemes for the glorifying of the name 
of " Weaver " in the medical world is threatened, it is frus- 
trated through the efforts of the famous doctor's younger 
brother, Dr. Jim. The story is powerful and compelling, 
even if it uncovers the problems and temptations of a physi- 
cian's career. Perhaps the most important character, not 
even excepting Dr. Weaver and Dr. Jim, is " The Girl," who 
plays such an important part in the lives of both men. 



? 



" The story becomes one of those absorbing tales of to-day which the 

reader literally devours in an evening, unwilling to leave the book until the $G 

last page is reached, and constantly alert, through the skill of the author, in 8 

following the characters through the twisted ways of their career." — Boston W 

Journal. w 

" The story is well-written, unique, quite out of the usual order, and is most ?? 

captivating ." — Christian Intelligencer. Cf 



te&^wa^^ 




z&CKn%x%> 



HILL OF VEN U 

{F$y Nathan Qallizier 

Author of " Castel del Monte," " The Sorcere«» of Rome, 
Court of Lucifer," etc. 

/ 2mo, cloth decorative, with four illustrations in color, net $1 .35; 
postpaid $1 .50 





The 



This is a vivid and powerful romance of the thirteenth 
century in the times of the great Ghibcliine wars, and deals 
with the fortunes of Francesco Villani, a monk, who has been 
coerced by his dying father to bind himself to the Church 
through a mistaken sense of duty, but who loves Ilaria, one 
of the famous beauties of the Court at Avellino. The excite- 
ment, splendor and stir of those days of activity in Rome are 
told with a vividness and daring, which give a singular fas- 
cination to the story. 



The Press has commented as follows on the author's previous \ 

books: \ 

" The author displays many of the talents that made Scott famous." — \ 

The Index. S 

" The book is breathless reading, as much for the adventure?, the pag- J 

eants, the midnight excursions of the minor characters, as for the love story I 
of the prince and Donna Lucrezia." — Boston Transcript. 

" Mr. Gallizier daringly and vividly paints in glowing word and phrases, s 

in sparkling dialogue and colorful narrative, the splendor, glamor and stir C 

in those days of excitement, intrigue, tragedy, suspicion and intellectual J 
activity in Rome." — Philadelphia Press. 

" A splendid bit of old Roman mosaic, or a gorgeous piece of tapestry. J 

Otto is a striking and pathetic figure. Description of the city, the gorgeous * 

ceremonials of the court and the revels are a series of wonderful pictures." — J 

Cincinnati Enquirer. J 

" The martial spirit of these stirring times, weird beliefs in magic and j 

religion are most admirably presented by the author, who knows his sub- ? 

ject thoroughly. It belongs to the class of Bulwer-Lytton's romances; care- ? 

fully studied, well wrought, and full of exciting incident." — Cleveland Ln- ? 
quirer. 

Romance at its best." — Boston Herald. j 

O»80H0«80B0B0Btt0B080B0B080 ^ ^ 





THE WHAT-SHALL-I-DO GIRL 

^ifc O r » The Career of Joy Kent 

(By Isabel Woodman Waitt 

1 2 mo, cloth decorative, illustrated b$ Jessie Gillespie. 
Net$l. 25 ; postpaid $1.40 

9 

When Joy Kent finds herself alone in the world, thrown 
on her own resources, after the death of her father, she looks 
about her, as do so many young girls, fresh from the public 
schools, wondering how she can support herself and earn a 
place in the great business world about her. Still wondering, 
she sends a letter to a number of girls she had known in school 
days, asking that each one tell her just how she had equipped 
herself for a salary-earning career, and once equipped, how 
she had found it possible to start on that career. In reply 
come letters from the milliner, the stenographer, the librarian, 
the salesgirl, the newspaper woman, the teacher, the nurse, 
and from girls who had adopted all sorts of vocations as a 
means of livelihood. Real riendly girl letters they are, too, 
not of the type that preach, but of the kind which give sound 
and helpful advice in a bright and interesting manner. Of 
course there is a splendid young man who also gives advice. 
Any " What-shall-I-do " young girl can read of the careers 
suggested for Joy Kent with profit and pleasure, and, perhaps, 
with surprise! 





£8S^*K8^C8»^C8S^C83C63S2C8SS3Ca8S2 



-I E HARBOR MAST E 

23y Theodore Goodridge Roberts 

Author of " Comrades of the Trails," "Rayton : A Backwoods 
Mystery," etc. 

9 

1 2mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color by John 
Goss. &£et $1.25 ; postpaid $1.40 



The scene of the story is Newfoundland. The story deals 
with the love of Black Dennis Nolan, a young giant and self- 
appointed skipper of the little fishing hamlet of Chance Along, 
for Flora Lockhart, a beautiful professional singer, who is 
rescued by Dennis from a wreck on the treacherous coast of 
Newfoundland, when on her way from England to the United 
States. The story is a strong one all through, with a mystery 
that grips, plenty of excitement and action, and the author 
presents life in the open in all its strength and vigor. Mr. 
Roberts is one of the younger writers whom the critics have 
been watching with interest. In " The Harbor Master " he 
has surely arrived. 



Of Mr. Roberts' previous books Ike critics have written as fol- 
lows: 

" The action is always swift and romantic and the love is of the kind that 
thrills the reader. The characters are admirably drawn and the reader fol- 
lows with deep interest the adventures of the two young people." — Balti- 
more Sun. 

" Mr. Roberts' pen has lost none of its cunning, while his style is easier 
and breezier than ever." — Bujalo Express. 

" It is a romance of clean, warm-hearted devotion to friends and duty. 
The characters are admirable each in his own or her own way, and the author 
has made each fit the case in excellent fashion." — Salt Lake City Tribune. 

" In this book Mr. Roberts has well maintained his reputation for the 
vivid coloring of his descriptive pictures, which are full of stirring action, 
and in which love and fighting hold chief place " — Rostov Times. 

" Its ease of style, its rapidity, its interest from page to page, are admi- 
rable; and it shows that inimitable power — the story-teller's gift of veri- 
similitude. Its sureness and clearness are excellent, and its portraiture clear 
and pleasing." — The Reader. 





AT THE SIGN OF THE TOWN 
PUMP 

The Further Adventures of Peggy of 
Spinster Farm 

fBy Helen M. Winslow 
1 2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, net $1 .25 ; postpaid $ 1 .40 

Miss Winslow calls us again away from the strenuous 
and noisy confusion of modern cities to the charm and con- 
tentment of life " under the greenwood tree." Peggy's ad- 
ventures had only just begun in the first book. In this new 
record of life at Spinster Farm and " Elysium," " At the Sign 
of the Town Pump," there is plenty of romantic adventure 
of the kind that proves truth to be stranger sometimes than 
fiction. There is humor, too, in even greater quantities than 
in the preceding book, sparkling humor that places the author 
well up in the list of our New England humorists. " At the 
Sign of the Town Pump " will be welcomed not only by those 
who enjoyed making the acquaintance of Spinster Farm, but 
by thousands of new readers who appreciate a clever story 
and a fascinating heroine. 

On " Peggy at Spinster Farm " the Press opinions are as 
follows: 

" Very alluring are the pictures she draws of the old-fashioned house, the 
splendid old trees, the pleasant walks, the gorgeous sunsets, and — or it 
would not be Helen Winslow — the cats." — The Boston Transcript. 

" ' Peggy at Spinster Farm ' is a rewarding volume, original and personal 
in its point of view, redolent of unfeigned love for the country and the sane, 
satisfying pleasures of country life." — Milwaukee Free Press. 

" It is an alluring, wholesome tale." — Schenectady Star. 

" Is a story remarkably interesting, and no book will be found more en- 
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acter sketches, and startling and unexpected happenings." — Northampton 
Gazette. 

" An exceptionally well-written book." — Milwaukee Evening Wisconsin. 

" The Spinster and Peggy have a quiet sense of humor of their own and 
they convey their experiences with a quaint enjoyment that holds us irre- 
sistibly." — The Argonaut. 

" This is a thoroughly enjoyable story. Mary Wilkins at her best was 
never more interesting, and she has never produced a book more normal 
and as wholesome as this." — Journal of Education. 




Selections from 
L. C. Page and Company's 
List of Fiction 



WORKS OF 

ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS 

Each one vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative ■, $1.50 

THE FLIGHT OF GEORGIANA 

A Romance of the Days of the Young Pretender, Illus- 
trated by H. C. Edwards. 

11 A love-story in the highest degree, a dashing story, and a re- 
markably well finished piece of work." — Chicago Recor duller aid. 

THE BRIGHT FACE OF DANGER 

Being an account of some adventures of Henri de Launay, son 
of the Sieur de la Tournoire. Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 
" Mr. Stephens has fairly outdone himself. We thank him 

heartily. The story is nothing if not spirited and entertaining, 

rational and convincing." — Boston Transcript. 

THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT 

(40th thousand.) 

" This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done. 
Those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure 
of this praise, which is generous." — Buffalo News. 

CAPTAIN RAVENSHAW 

Or, The Maid of Cheapside. (52d thousand.) A romance 
of Elizabethan London. Illustrations by Howard Pyle and 
other artists. 

Not since the absorbing adventures of D'Artagnan have we had 
anything so good in the blended vein of romance and comedy. 

THE CONTINENTAL DRAGOON 

A Romance of Philipse Manor House in 1778. (53d 
thousand.) Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 
A stirring romance of the Resolution, with its scenes laid on 
oeutral territory* 



L. C. PAGE 6- COMPANY'S 



PHILIP WINWOOD 

(70th thousand.) A Sketch of the Domestic History of an 
American Captain in the War of Independence, embracing 
events that occurred between and during the years 1763 and 
1785 in New York and London. Illustrated by E. W. D. 
Hamilton. 

AN ENEMY TO THE KING 

(70th thousand.) Illustrated by H. De M. Young. 

An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the 
adventures of a young French nobleman at the court of Henry 
III., and on the field with Henry IV. 

THE ROAD TO PARIS 

A Story of Adventure. (35th thousand.) Illustrated by 
H. C. Edwards. 

An historical romance of the eighteenth century, being an 
account of the life of an American gentleman adventurer. 

A GENTLEMAN PLAYER 

His Adventures on a Secret Mission for Queen Eliza- 
beth. (48th thousand.) Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 
The story of a young gentleman who joins Shakespeare's 
company of players, and becomes a protege of the great poet. 

CLEMENTINA'S HIGHWAYMAN 

Illustrated by A. Everhart. 

The story is laid in the mid-Georgian period. It is a dashing, 
sparkling, vivacious comedy. 

TALES FROM BOHEMIA 

Illustrated by Wallace Goldsmith. 

These bright and clever tales deal with people of the theatre and 
odd characters in other walks of life which fringe on Bohemia. 

A SOLDIER OF VALLEY FORGE 

By Robert Neilson Stephens and Theodore Goodridge 
Roberts. 

With frontispiece by Frank T. Merrill. 

" The plot shows invention and is developed with originality, 
and there is incident in abundance." — Brooklyn Times. 

THE SWORD OF BUSSY 

By Robert Neilson Stephens and Herman Nickerson. 

With frontispiece by Edmund H. Garrett. 

Net, $1.25; postpaid, $1.40 

" The plot is lively, dashing and fascinating, the very kind 
of a story that one does not want to stop reading until it is 
finished." — Boston Herald. 



LIST OF FICTION 



WORKS OF 

ELEANOR H. PORTER 

MISS BILLY 

Cloth decorative, with frontispiece in full color from a painting 

by Griswold Tyng . $1.50 

" There is a fine humor in the book, some good revelation 

of character and plenty of romance of an unusual order." — 

The Philadelphia Inquirer. 

''It is a tale with many amusing situations and a pretty 

romance which endears Billy to the heart of the reader." — 

Marine Journal. 

MISS BILLY'S DECISION 

(A Sequel to " Miss Billy.") 

Cloth decorative, with frontispiece in full color from a paint- 
ing by Henry W. Moore . . Net, $1.25; postpaid, $1.40 
" A sequel to the delightful ' Miss Billy,' and a sequel happily 
to be sought," says the New York World. " Thoroughly read- 
able and as clean and sweet as a day in June." 

WORKS OF 

CHARLES FELTON PIDGIN 

THE CHRONICLES OF QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER, 
DETECTIVE 

Cloth decorative, illustrated by Harold J. Cue. 

Net, $1.25; postpaid, $1.40 
1 The author is to be complimented not only upon the clev- 
erness of his plots, but upon the skill with which he constructs 
and clears away mysteries, and the power he possesses to attract 
interest and maintain it unflaggingly to the end." — Boston 
Globe. 

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF QUINCY 
ADAMS SAWYER AND MASON'S CORNER 
FOLKS 

Cloth decorative, illustrated by Henry Roth . $1.50 

" The book is intensely human, bright, witty, hopeful, kindly, 
and interesting." — Christian Endeavor World. 

STEPHEN HOLTON 

Cloth decorative, illustrated by Frank T. Merrill . $1.50 
" New England's common life seems a favorite material for 

this sterling author, who, in this particular instance, mixes his 

colors with masterly skill." — Boston Globe. 



L. C. PAGE & COMPANY'S 



WORKS OF 

L. M. MONTGOMERY 

ANNE OF GREEN GABLES 

Illustrated by M. A. and W. A. J. Claus. 12mo . $1.50 
" Anne of Green Gables " is beyond question the most popu- 
lar girl heroine in recent years. Poets, statesmen, humorists, 
critics, and the great public have lost their hearts to the charm- 
ing Anne. 

"In ' Anne of Green Gables ' you will find the dearest and 
most moving and delightful child since the immortal Alice." 
— Mark Twain in a letter to Francis Wilson. 

ANNE OF AVONLEA 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. 12mo . . . . $1.50 

In this volume Anne is as fascinating as ever, and the author 
has introduced several new characters. 

" Here we have a book as human as ' David Harum,' a hero- 
ine who outcharms a dozen princesses of fiction, and reminds 
you of some sweet girl you know, or knew back in the days 
when the world was young." — San Francisco Bulletin. 

" A book to lift the spirit and send the pessimist into bank- 
ruptcy! " — Meredith Nicholson. 

CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. 12mo. Net, $1.25; postpaid, $1.40 
" The author shows a wonderful knowledge of humanity, 
great insight and warm-heartedness in the manner in which 
some of the scenes are treated, and the sympathetic way the 
gentle peculiarities of the characters are brought out." — 
Baltimore Sun. 

THE STORY GIRL 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. 12mo . . . . $1.50 
" A book that holds one's interest and keeps a kindly smile 
upon one's lips and in one's heart as well." — Chicago Inter- 
Ocean. 

" The book is full of sprightly humor, the quaint conceits 
and the genuine understanding of youth, which mark so ex- 
cellently the various chronicles of Anne." — New York World. 

KILMENY OF THE ORCHARD 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. 12mo i . . . . $1.50 
" A story born in the heart of Arcadia and brimful of the 

sweet and simple life of the primitive environment." — Boston 

Herald. 



FEB 21 1913 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

019 566 866 8 






